Twelfth Month
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: HLotD – Advent Calendar 2014! Wahoo! (otherwise known as – "Blast, what do I title this!") Daily updates through December. Anywhere from drabbles to ficlets.
1. Wordwielder: First Snowfall

_NOTE: HELLO EVERYONE! Alright, here we go! HLotD's Advent Calendar! I'M PUMPED._

_I'm not sure if every entry will be as long as this. And I'm sorry if length is irksome! I'M JUST EXCITED. And probably a bit too talkative at the moment. Alright. Onwards we go._

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><p><span>From Wordwielder:<strong> First Snowfall<strong>

London could, but very rarely, boast sunny weather. Even so, that last week of November in the year 1881 was _decidedly_ overcast. It was far, far too early in the season to expect snow. And yet, nearly every Londoner could sense the brooding silence that lay inside the silver clouds settling over southern England, and it seemed as if the very air urged the chaotic city to hush; listen; wait.

Naturally, it stubbornly refused.

The London populace had no time for snow. And that fact was evidenced quite nicely by the ongoing activities of the criminal element. As such, it came to happen that Sherlock Holmes invited his fellow lodger of half-a-year's association to join Lestrade and himself in the investigation of a burglary.

In the first year following his leave from the army, Dr. Watson was given to bouts of depression. His temperament was hindered in no small measure by the bodily complaints of long recovery and memories of time spent abroad (a strange mixture, the doctor reflected, of horror for the bloodshed, and an odd homesickness for a foreign way of life to which he had become accustomed). As the three men rode in a cab towards their destination, the doctor sat staring thoughtfully out at the clouded evening sky.

Holmes was well aware of his fellow lodger's despondency. He was, after all, no stranger to dark moods himself. And while _he_ may prefer to be left alone to his dark thoughts, Holmes had concluded that Watson was one who needed distraction and company to shake off a mantle of gloom.

Into a stately neighborhood they rattled and eventually stopped, observing the peculiar sight of three houses, each somewhat removed from the other, sporting wooden boards in bottom-level window panes that had only an hour before clutched glass.

"Well, this is indeed a pretty sight, Lestrade," Holmes muttered, eyes scanning a handful of constables and a particularly irate home-owner.

"How the deuce were there _three _simultaneous robberies at 8 o'clock in the evening – with _no witnesses_?" Lestrade moaned despairingly. He was a man who knew when he was in over his head; and while on another occasion he might, for the simple sake of pride and stubbornness, absolutely refuse to consult Holmes, he was well aware of the blustery, red-faced gentleman (currently shouting down a poor constable), who would surely have no compunction about complaining to the Inspector's superiors were the burglaries unresolved within the next twenty-four hours.

Weary desperation tightened Lestrade's words. "Alright, Mr. Holmes, go to it. I have no idea what you do, but do it. _Now_. _Please._"

Holmes lifted an eyebrow haughtily but, remarkably, said nothing. Despite the ungracious housing, there was something of an underhanded compliment in Lestrade's demand, and it was perhaps that which caused Holmes to forgo a reply.

Watson followed the detective to the first house, leaving Lestrade to intercept the angry client. Holmes stooped and followed the ground around the window with an attentive glare.

For several minutes, Holmes wandered about observing first the lawn and then the window. Once, he uttered a whispered curse at whichever "fool" had decided to box the windows in, the action having "disrupted the evidence". Watson refrained from pointing out that this had likely been done to keep the houses' occupants warm. The night, after all, seemed to be growing steadily colder.

Eventually Holmes moved on to the second house. Watson stood idly, trading his attention between Holmes' occasional murmurs and Lestrade's impressive endurance under the frustrated home-owner's epithets.

As it was, he was the only one in a position to notice when a delicate white flake slid through the dark evening air.

The doctor's breath hitched in strange excitement.

He'd always appreciated snow, of course, but just now… Was it actually snowing? London didn't get a lot of it, not really… He wondered distractedly to himself, _then why am I so-?_

There! Another one.

And _another_.

Quite unexpectedly, Watson realized his lips were lifting into a wide smile.

Having been discovered, it seemed as if the snow was unwilling to slow its fall. The air began to fill with the stuff: huge, wet flakes which eagerly flopped to clutch at the ground.

In unison, there was a loud howl of disgust from Holmes, and one of perfect delight from Watson.

"_No_, the _evidence…!_"

"It's _snowing!_"

Holmes rushed between the windows as quickly as he could, the recalcitrant weather doing its finest to deny everyone's expectations. It set about its business decisively, layering upon any surface available.

The roommates were a perfect study of contrasts; Holmes was scowling bitterly as the evidence became slowly obscured, hurrying himself along in an attempt to discover any clues that might remain. Watson remained in place, albeit with the occasional unbalanced side-step as he craned his head upwards to behold the swirling patterns falling towards him.

Eventually, Holmes had to give it up, and he returned disappointedly to the side of the man who would eventually become a dear friend. "Well, Watson, that's all that can be done tonight. It would be wise for us to be getting home. I'll just tell Lestrade we're leaving—"

"Holmes, can we _walk_?!"

Startled, Holmes stared at the doctor. He'd of course been oblivious to Watson's initial joy. Now, he was able to observe the result of its effects. The doctor's cheeks were warm with color and his morose eyes seemed lit anew. Holmes might have used the words "boyish glee" to describe Watson's appearance - if it wasn't such a ridiculous description for an army veteran in his late twenties.

"… Well, I suppose… But in respect to your leg-?"

"My leg? Hang my leg! Come on, Holmes – _snow_!"


	2. Domina Temporis: Hudson, Bored Holmes

_Note: Huzzah! Day two! To everyone that reviewed: thank you so much! To be honest, I had an irritating day at work yesterday and reading everyone's responses and stories and comments made me smile. Thanks again! _

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><p><span>From Domina Temporis: <span>**Watson is away on a trip. What will Mrs. Hudson do with a bored consulting detective until Watson returns?**

_The doctor will be home again shortly. He must be. He can't be gone for too long. The doctor will be home—_

The violin screeching a floor above Mrs. Hudson suddenly stopped, and the house-keeper closed her eyes in relief, sinking down into a kitchen chair. For three days, she had abided all manner of nuisance from her bored lodger.

Mr. Holmes, it must be said, is creative.

Who else but a creative man would choose two o'clock in the morning to research the volume of report from three types of revolvers? Who else but a creative man would consider playing a fast-tempo staccato piece using only the E string of his violin for an hour and a half? Who else but a creative man would voluntarily create a minor explosive chemical reaction – simply because "it is terribly fascinating! I've always wanted to see that reaction for myself. Although I daresay this book might have warned that the sparks go a _slight_ bit further than the ordinary – Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson, terribly sorry about the scorch marks in the rug, there's no point in shouting so—"

That very incident earlier this afternoon had quite nearly been the final straw. She had forced Holmes' promise: to stay _away_ from that "blasted chemistry set" until the good Doctor arrives home again, or "heaven forbid, I'll send word off to one of those gentlemen Inspectors at the yard to have you removed and _detained _until Dr. Watson returns."

In truth, neither herself nor Mr. Holmes knew when that would be. It could be tomorrow, it could be three days from now. At that thought, the desperate Mrs. Hudson groaned aloud, rubbing her hand across her eyes. There was little she could do to keep Mr. Holmes occupied, short of running outside and murdering someone for his entertainment. _Honestly, like a fussy little child, he is_. At least, she conceded wearily, it would keep him from concocting some new torture for a few minutes—

A floor above, there came a _bang!_ and the rattle of glass in panes. A tell-tale bout of coughing set the landlady to her feet.

_Oh, he _wouldn't.

Ire fixing her posture, Mrs. Hudson stomped up the stairs, listening as a scramble of footsteps and a poorly subdued swear confirm her angry suspicions.

She swung open the door of the sitting room and let herself in without announcement, glaring at the bland, innocent face of Sherlock Holmes.

"_What did I say about the chemistry table._"

The detective cleared his throat with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson?"

It was perfectly ludicrous. Holmes tried to resist a cough in the smoky, rancid atmosphere of an unexpectedly violent chemical reaction. He was like a child covered in chocolate residue trying to swear he'd had nothing to do with a jar of vanished sweets.

"_Mister_. _Holmes._"

The detective sighed, as if the whole rigmarole of interrogation was perfectly tedious. "Mrs. Hudson, you said, 'do not touch that blasted chemistry set' until Dr. Watson returns home again."

"Then _why,_" Mrs. Hudson demanded testily, "have you _just gone_. And _used_. The _chemistry set_."

"Ah! Correction, my dear woman." He gave a victorious grin. "I did _not_ use the _blasted _chemistry set."

He indicated a line of shattered test tubes and beakers in the rubbish bin beside the door.

For a moment, all Mrs. Hudson could do was stare in outright astonishment.

Holmes' smug expression turned sour when Mrs. Hudson drew herself to her full height (all five foot, three inches of it), the full tilt of her Scottish upbringing seeping unconsciously into her furious words.

"I have had _enough_. Mr. Holmes! This is _quite _the last straw of my patience."

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes tried soothingly, standing and raising his hands gently.

"No! Enough! What did I say, sir? What _did I say_? I said I would have you forcibly removed."

The no-nonsense tone in her voice sent a great deal of the blood in the detective's face plummeting away.

"Ah—Mrs. Hudson, surely—"

"Oh," she scoffed haughtily, "_now _you change your tone! No, Mr. Holmes, I have had _enough. Enough!_"

She swept around and began making her way downstairs. She'd send one of the boys, they could get a hold of – oh, which one was it that Holmes despised so much?

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes came running after her, hands raised in desperate supplication. "Mrs. Hudson, my dear woman-"

"Don't you dear woman me, you incorrigible nuisance."

"I appol – I _apologize_, I realize now that I my – um, erratic moods may – on occasion be troublesome—"

Mrs. Hudson snorted in an unladylike manner.

"But if you will allow me to make it up to you, in _some way_—Please, Mrs. Hudson, stop for just a moment!"

Holmes drew up short on the stairs, head and torso recoiling when Mrs. Hudson turned stonily to face him.

"And how, do you suppose, you should make it up to me."

The detective foundered. "… Um."

She raised an eyebrow and threw her arms out. "Well? I'm listening! You had better think of something, Mr. Holmes."

Desperation caused him to be foolish. "Ah – well, I suppose – I suppose it should be up to you?"

The landlady blinked. Seeing her momentarily distracted from her path of revenge, Holmes deflated in relief. "Yes. That sounds only fair. Mrs. Hudson, how may I make it up to you? It is your decision."

Slowly, a smile traced its way across her face. Holmes grimaced.

Three hours later, Sherlock Holmes concluded to himself that landladies were most intolerable and erratic, and should be treated with the utmost of care.

His first task – _first_, mind you – was to move some boxes down from the attic, and to take some from the first floor to the attic. Breath heaving and in dusty shirt sleeves, he slid the final box into the attic and slumped over the trapdoor.

Below him, standing at the ladder, Mrs. Hudson's voice called cheerily. "Why, _thank you_ Mr. Holmes, for taking some of your free time to help a woman with some difficult lifting. I have another task for you once you come down."

The detective pulled himself up to glare down at the smug little woman. She observed him a moment before noting blandly, "You've a cobweb in your hair, Mr. Holmes," and turning toward the stairs.

Irritably, he picked the clinging strands form his hair. He gave a final glance around the attic, sighed, and slowly made his way down the ladder. W_ell_, he mused, _at least I'll have something to do until Watson returns. _


	3. I'm Nova: Composing

_NOTE: *chuckles nervously* So, uh... I'm not going to raise the rating, because I don't think it's terribly bad, but... This does have some...  
><em>unpleasant_ elements to it. Mention of a severed limb and one further aspect left to the imagination. *looks at prompt, winces* Yeah, I know. I just wanted to interpret it in a slightly different way than expected. ... Well, you'll see. _

_I_ did_ want to make a point, so hopefully it comes together. Thanks for reading! _

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><p><span>From I'm Nova – <span>**Composing**

Holmes' corner by the window was marked by a music stand – only occasionally drawn up to support empty staves of sheet music. It was rare that Holmes saw fit to write down his meanderings with his Stradivarius; in those moments, Holmes would become immersed in the task of delivering the music circling in his head into an ordered peppering of black dots and lines.

Watson watched as Holmes finished writing out a new measure and thoughtfully raised his violin to his shoulder. Slowly, he played the line, bowing as thoughtfully as one might turn over a curious toy in one's hands. He played it, replayed it faster, and eventually made the decision to add a series of further notations.

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><p>Scotland Yard received so many threatening and provocative letters in a week, they could easily start a magazine of sensational literature. The majority, of course, were scrawled nothings: idle promises of harm or else school boy pranks.<p>

However, ludicrous messages attached to gristly packages – now, _those_ were something to be concerned about. Something new. And revolting.

Lestrade sat back in his chair, a shaking hand seizing hold of a brandy. He pulled in a breath and reconsidered the note.

_She wore a ring of lovely red_

_Once precious band of life was dead_

_For when I held her fingers cold_

_She frowned -a quiver:_

_"My love, lament;_

_I've love confessed, another told."_

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><p>The good doctor went rigid beside Holmes, but eventually breathed a deep sigh. Holmes' stare did not waver, and after a moment's observation leaned down to observe the severed hand more closely.<p>

"You see, of course, the neat cut around her ring finger," Lestrade noted, more for desire to say something than of a need to indicate it. The eye was drawn to the gracefully narrow line of blood.

"We know," Holmes began after a moment, "that she was married and that she was an artist. Her art was one of pleasure rather than necessity, for she was wealthy – by marriage or birth is inconsequential. It is… _Likely_ that she was familiar with the person who disfigured her and that they at least had the decency – so to speak – of killing her before doing any injuries further. Observe how the wound upon her ring finger has not bled. We will of course know more if the body is recovered, although I suspect a quicker course of action would be to sift through the missing persons reports." He straightened and distractedly inquired after the packaging in which the hand had been sent.

"Oh – um, yes, of course, these things here, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade moved out of the way to allow the detective his inspection of the box. "How do you know she was… 'familiar', as you say, with her killer?"

Watson cleared his throat. "There are no defensive wounds or abrasions, nothing, I suspect –" he leaned closer and squinted at her nails, "yes, nothing in the usual evidences of fending off attack." Frowning, he straightened and addressed Holmes. "However, she simply could have been taken by surprise, or used her right hand to defend herself."

Holmes tsked. "She is left handed, Watson, notable by the same means we can conclude she is an artist. Look for yourselves, gentlemen – there is residue from a painter's oil medium, a solution used to keep the paints wet and pliable while applied to canvas. She's been untidy and allowed the upper parts of her paintbrushes to become dirty. Besides," he sighed, almost reverently picking up the red satin ribbon that had come with the velvet lined box. "look at how tenderly the hand was sent. The murderer _was_, after all, handling the delicate limb of a lover."

Lestrade's head jerked up. An eerie silence fell over the three men as they considered the evidence before them. "What do you make of it, Holmes," Watson asked finally, voice subdued.

The detective was silent a moment longer before replying. "My dear fellow, it appalls me to conclude that our murderer was _composing._"

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><p>In the sitting room, the music stand waited forlornly. Holmes, however, steadfastly refused to look at it. His mind was preoccupied with the more pressing matters of the case.<p>

Inquiries were being made. Holmes did not reveal his thoughts to anyone, but instead sat in his armchair, a copy of the murderer's poem resting beside him and a pipe clenched between his teeth.

Watson was unable to keep his thoughts on his book and found his gaze continuously drawn towards his friend, that ghastly note upon the armrest, and the symbolic music stand at the window which had always been a source of warmth in his thoughts, and which now offered so deep a counterpoint to the chill of the lovingly penned poem.

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><p>Outside a house in London, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were in time to stop a second murder.<p>

While Lestrade barked orders for the removal of a handcuffed Louis Gainwright to Scotland Yard, Dr. Watson attempted to console a confused and sobbing Lillian Carter – youthful and beautiful actress of little renown.

Holmes, for his part, solemnly categorized every aspect of Gainwright's uninspiringly bare rooms. There were flowers – long since dead – beside a desk littered with crumpled papers and candles' wax droppings. Beneath the bed were hidden bottles of alcohol. A rug was hitched beside a closet. Holmes strode over purposefully and lifted it aside, revealing a splotch of mottled red stain—

"Watson, would you kindly deliver Miss Carter into the able protection of a constable and fetch Inspector Lestrade to join us?"

This task complete, Holmes placed a hand upon the doorknob of the closet.

"Gentlemen, I do not think I need remind you that the sight will not be pretty. It has been several days since we received Gainwright's package."

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><p>The mourning husband of Ellen Redgrove was informed that the body of his wife had been located. A discreet funeral was arranged and her infidelity hushed and hidden from friends, family, and media.<p>

"He was unable to sell even _one_ poem?"

"I had an opportunity to glance over his journals, Watson. I can assure you, they were quite insipid little things."

"And yet, apparently, Mrs. Redgrove saw something more in them."

"Indeed," Holmes sighed. "I am unsure how they were able to strike a chord in her artistic soul. Yet there _was_ _something_, and it appealed to her so highly as to even foster the idea of love." He was silent for a moment. "I regret having to inform Mr. Redgrove of her affair."

Watson hummed in assent. "It is quite obvious that he was devoted to her. But, I suppose there was something missing, in the end. Or else she was drawn away by some freedom she saw in Gainwright."

They were silent for a while, each absorbed in their reflection on the case. Finally, Watson mused aloud, "It is sickening to consider the mind of that man."

"He was not entirely sane, of course."

"No, I understand that. But still. Inspired by death?"

Holmes said nothing, and Watson glanced at his friend. Eventually, Holmes replied slowly. "I suspect he was not inspired so much by death but by its magnitude. Again, we must remember that the man was not healthy in mind. Regardless, however, he was struck by the 'romance' of his situation, and of the woman with whom he was involved; he beheld artistry in the literal affirmation of his prose and in acting out a fantasy – Mrs. Redgrove confessing her affair to her husband."

Watson blinked. "Holmes, that is still perfectly ghastly."

The detective chuckled softly. "And to that statement I offer no rebuttal."

He stood and stretched languidly, slowly walking over to his music stand and waiting Stradivarius. He tested the strings absently, rereading what he had been writing before the case began.

Watson listened for a minute or so before asking a troubling thought that had lurked unwanted for several days. "Holmes… You do not find inspiration… in… death, do you…?"

Holmes did not cease playing as he considered, although he unconsciously began a _ritardando_ of the phrase.

Eventually, his bow fell to his side. "Watson, the Italians have a word for describing the relationship of light and shadow – of how the light may fall unevenly upon distinctive surfaces. No doubt you have heard it in relation to art – _chiaroscuro_.

"I daresay its principles can be applied to philosophy." He frowned. "I would be better able to ease your fears were I to answer the question you are _really_ asking – to that I can assure you, I do not cherish the suffering of another."

He lifted his gaze to meet his friend's and smiled gently. "Passion, anger, love, death – they are concepts so tangled in one another, I do believe it would be impossible to remove any of them from the equation: they are all like the _chiaroscuro _of a painting. Do you understand?"

Watson nodded slowly. Eventually, Holmes turned away again to play his violin.

This time, however, the composition was different. It had the same distinctive voice of the work Holmes had already completed – but it seemed gentler and more reassuring.

The violin, after all, was the window to Holmes' heart.

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><p><em>note: I think I managed three or four different perceptions of the word. ... I think.<br>_


	4. Hades Lord of the Dead: Musical!

_NOTE: Okayokayokay, here's the deal, I have a hard time with outright parody, so I always try and keep things in character. AND THIS ONE WAS CHALLENGING. It's a bit long, but hopefully it still manages to give you a small amount of what you were looking for. *winks at HLotD* And, despite my efforts, it's still a tad ludicrous, hahaha. I'm a bit late today because I had work AND I GOT TO GO SEE A SHERLOCK HOLMES PLAY AND IT WAS PRETTY AWESOME. ... Well, not work, but the play. You know. _

_Also, can you spy the 10 musical titles? ;)_

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><p><span>From Hades Lord of the Dead - <span>**The characters wake up one morning to discover they're trapped inside a musical!**

Waking up with a headache is never a pleasant task, and yet it was one to which John Watson had grown wearily accustomed.

Years ago, he would awake to the dreary cries of war, weariness and the stress-induced grinding of teeth setting the tone of the day with a migraine. In later years, it would be the nightmares - waking having rested not at all, entwined in sweat slick sheets and an unbearably stuffy room.

Now, it seemed, it would be his fate to occasionally awake after being slammed in the head with something stiff. As such, his first words upon waking were hardly cheerful and mostly unprintable.

"Holmes," he called in an irritated groan. Beside him came a slow intake of breath, quickly halted by a hiss of pain and an equally wicked epithet regarding the scandalous lineage of their attackers.

"Watson." the detective grimaced, "As I am not yet equal to the task of opening my eyes, kindly affirm my suspicions: that your arms have _also_ been tied, and your head dashed to pieces by an unpleasantly dense... Something or other?"

"As always, your abilities astound me, my dear Holmes," Watson agreed blandly. He squinted at the detective. "_Please_ tell me you've not gone and received a concussion."

"Not quite, dear fellow, and I suppose for that we must thank small mercies."

Holmes grunted as he opened his eyes and cast a scowl about the room. He had already begun testing his tied wrists as he took in the details of their surroundings. After a moment, he cocked his head in an almost canine fashion. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Holmes continued to listen, eventually shaking his head dismissively and focusing his concentration on his hands. After a moment he sighed, glancing at his companion. "Well, this is really most embarrassing."

Watson lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Holmes hummed in assent. "I'm afraid we've been captured by abominably second rate thugs, my dear fellow. I mean, for goodness sake, look at these ropes!"

He turned his body in such a way that Watson could see the bindings. "Shameful," Holmes lamented bitterly. "And look: no one checked our shirt cuffs, either."

With a dispirited sigh, Holmes sat back again and set about retrieving the razor blade secreted inside his sleeve. "Knocked about and expected to remain unconscious until a return," he chided under his breath. "Amateurish in the extreme, Watson. It's frankly disappointing, the skill of criminals these days... It's as if anything goes. Pah!"

His final disgruntled exclamation was punctuated by the pop of taut ropes snapping, and Holmes turned his attentions upon the patiently waiting Watson.

"Well, in such case, Holmes, it us who are really to blame," said Watson seriously. "It is our job to discourage such behavior. Allowing ourselves to be captured so easily, and through such sloppy means… You would think that in the last five years, we would have set a higher standard."

Holmes snorted. When the ropes came free, Watson shrugged out of the binding and stood massaging stiff muscles.

"Alright, Holmes. What are their plans?"

"I find it likely that wherever we are, they'll have a lookout or guard somewhere. Perhaps several men blocking exists on the 'off-chance'," he sneered deprecatingly, "that we are able to affect an escape from this wholly _daunting_ prison cell - of a _supply closet_."

He jiggled the handle of the door and hung his head once more with an irritated groan. "Watson," he fairly whined, "this lock shall be child's play to pick. Do they _really_ think so lowly of me? Of _us?_"

Watson chuckled despite himself. "Alright, old boy; just get us out of here."

Grumbling all the while, Holmes knelt and released the bolt with a pick secreted inside his boot. Emerging cautiously into the corridor outside, the pair were met with both the sound of music and of snoring. Beside the door slumped an incorrigible looking man, flask in lap, thoroughly engrossed in the act of sleeping.

Watson had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from smiling at the comically offended chagrin in Holmes' pointed glare. Quickly, he shut the door and took the detective by the arm, pulling him away from the evidence of his disgrace.

As they travelled the corridor and up a staircase, the sporadic starts and stops of several bars of music grew louder in their ears. Holmes had by now taken the lead and turned away from the music, following a promising hallway towards a door.

An instant later he had spun around and was pushing Watson the opposite way.

"Quickly," he hissed, pulling them both into an empty room. A voice passing by called to another by the door.

"Oliver!"

"Ahh. Hello, Dolly."

"Any word from Simon downstairs? Have the… Well, you know. Have they given any trouble?"

Watson had to quietly punch the detective's shoulder to get him to stop muttering about everything their captors were doing wrong.

"Nah, we knocked them out cold this morning. Charlie's up at the other crew exit, so we'll be fine. I doubt we'll have any issue from _them_," he sneered proudly.

Another half-minute of conversation, and 'Dolly' was moving away again. Watson turned to his friend, who had lifted a finger to his chin as was his habit when thinking. "Well, Holmes?"

"Simply, we must find another way out."

They retraced their steps through the hallway and, this time, turned toward the music.

"Perhaps there is a stage door – or else auditioners are going through the ma—"

Watson's head jerked around. "Auditions?"

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "Of course. Auditions for – unless I'm very much mistaken – that dreadful Gilbert and Sullivan production you dragged me to a few months ago."

Indeed, now that the names were mentioned, Watson recognized the music immediately. He'd thought it sounded familiar but had been unable to place it. He gasped aloud. "Pirates of Penzance! Come, Holmes, it was hardly dreadful."

They passed an open doorway filled with bustling costumers and the occasional glimpse of hanging silk stockings. "Well," Holmes conceded, "it was not as musically offensive as a _cabaret_ or some such, but, as long as I live, I daresay I shall never hear a more shrewish chorus line of young women."

Watson's retort regarding the number of times Holmes should have opportunity to hear a 'chorus line of _young women_' was stifled by an offended shout in front of them.

"You!"

In an instant, Holmes had an iron grip upon Watson's wrist and was prepared to pull him away. However, the man bearing down on them was clearly _not_ a thug arrived to knock them senseless.

The dark suit and frippery spoke one occupation in Holmes' mind. _He's one of the_ _producers._

"You! What the devil do you suppose you're doing? Auditions are this way."

Watson's face went pale. "Oh! Oh – uh, sir, no – I'm afraid—"

"—_he means to say_, he was so _dreadfully nervous_, he had no idea – this is my good friend Daniel Murray." Holmes' demeanor had turned proud and open as he introduced his companion. 'Daniel Murray' appeared caught in some sort of nervous coughing fit.

The producer shook his head irritably. "Yesyesyes, whatever, I don't care – he's had aspirations at a young age and all that, dreamt of fame, I don't give a jolly hoot – just get down to the stage _right away_, we have business to attend to!"

Holmes forcibly propelled his friend along, an effort made difficult by Watson digging his heels into the ground at every turn. "_Holmes-!_"

"This may be our only chance to escape without alerting our captors," Holmes muttered quickly, eyes scanning the wings of the stage as they followed the foppish producer. "I don't see any of the stage hands. Watson, this is our only chance—"

"_HOLMES—_"

"Ah yes, this is… What's his name, David Murdock or someother, auditioning no doubt for the part of the Major General, given his stature and – really, dear fellow, the military limp does you a credit, good character acting on your part – ehm, which voice part are you?"

Before Watson could protest in any manner, Holmes, hands firmly clasped around the doctor's shoulders, answered cheerfully, "baritone!"

"Right, perfect, piano? You all set? Jolly good, let's get this over with."

Holmes gave a final shove at his friend who stumbled unhappily onto the center of the stage.

The music started and Watson swallowed desperately. Quite suddenly, his mouth was incurably dry. Luckily, he had quite enjoyed the Pirates of Penzance and had annoyed Holmes ruthlessly by humming the lines to himself at all hours of the day in the month following their trip to the theater.

"_I am the very model of a modern major general, with i-information an—anim – and mineral… I-I know the kings of England and I quote the facts historical from Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical…"_

Slowly warming to the music, Watson grinned in surprise as he managed to remember the words. Reciting the lines, he couldn't help but begin to swagger in an attempt to act out the lyrics.

"_About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot of news…" _He raised his eyebrows expectantly, drawing a snicker from Holmes in the wings. "_With… Many cheerful facts about the square of the hypoten—"_

"THANK YOU, next!"

Watson startled involuntarily. "Uh—What?"

The producer that had located them before took hold of Watson's shoulder firmly and pushed him along to the stairs fronting the stage. "Thank you for auditioning, we'll call you, all that—Now, let's get your friend in—"

In an instant, Holmes' demeanor shifted from amused to tense. "Ah – yes, I'm afraid Mr. Murray and I must be going—"

The producer led him bodily to the center of the stage. One of the technical directors seated in the front row, a fussy looking gentleman who appeared to be the director, was already shaking his head.

"Nonono, he doesn't look right at all, look at how tall he is. He's not doddering at all."

"_Doddering?_" Watson repeated appalled, unheard by all.

Another gentleman, apparently the lighting director, groaned aloud. "Nah, look at 'is nose. I'm going to have a nightmare gettin' 'is face lit all right, nose like that—"

"Oh, I have it – what about the sergeant of police?"

Holmes had straitened in righteous indignation. "Gentlemen, I don't believe—"

Watson took a step forward, speaking over the detective. "What my friend is trying to say is: he does not believe his vocal range would fit the role. But I can assure you that my dear companion William Hopkins—" he raised his voice to cover the outraged squawk "—Is a most capable musician and has always _dreamed _of playing the role of a police officer."

A weaker man would have withered beneath Holmes' revengeful glower. Watson, however, merely grinned.

"Can't hurt, let's try it, piano!"

The music began, and Holmes faced the audience with all of the majesty of a wet, dejected cat.

"_When a felon's not engaged in his employment or… maturing?…_ oh for the love – I don't even know—"

A sheet of music was shoved into Holmes' hands, and the music rolled steadily along. He hissed through his teeth and shook the music straight in his hand.

"_… Capacity for innocent enjoyment, is just as great as any honest man's." _A pained grimace traced Holmes' features as he continued to sing: although, not poorly. "_Our feelings we with difficulty smother—" _

Watson was required to turn away, hiding his laughter. To Holmes' consternation, he was not told to stop at the end of the line as the doctor had been, but rather encouraged by several pleased nods in the audience. "Here!" the director called. "Skip past the instrumental interlude and continue with the other verses!"

Holmes desperately shuffled through his music to get to the appointed spot and continued unhappily. As he neared the end, he began to look uncomfortable, and Watson realized his voice was straining towards the lower notes. Indeed, when it came to the final octave jump into the lower bass range, Holmes took a great breath and sunk his head lower –

"_Happy onnnnnneee._"

For a high baritone, it was a valiant effort, but the result was strangled and left Holmes red faced and coughing. His positive reception instantly turned sour, and he was wished the same empty promises as had been issued to Watson while they were bundled towards the door.

They escaped successfully, stepping out into the cool London morning and hastening away from the doors of the theater.

Once free, Watson snorted loudly and began hooting with laughter. Holmes shoved him once, but eventually softened and began to laugh as well. Lestrade was notified as to the crimes of the stage crew at the theater – and was completely baffled when Watson's commiseration that "a policeman's lot is not a happy one" caused Holmes to choke.


	5. Domina Temporis: Lestrade & Holmes Meet

_NOTE: I haven't been responding to comments but I have absolutely been reading them and they are a great pick-me-up. Thank you to everyone reviewing, and of course, thank you to everyone writing. In today's installment, I 100% think Lestrade would be one of those sludgy-thick-coffee drinkers. _

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><p><span>From Domina Temporis - <span>**Holmes and Lestrade's first meeting**

Blearily, Lestrade poured himself another cup of coffee. He'd futilely hoped the trudge from his office would clear his head by some degree, but a mere fifty-foot stroll does little to dispel the haze of an all-nighter.

_Footwork_. The reason for his success at Scotland Yard came down to good, no-nonsense, old-fashioned _footwork_. Did the public understand? Of course not. To hear the newspapers, you would think being an Inspector was little more than showing up to arrest a criminal: a criminal who would be clearly identifiable by the gun still smoking in his hand.

He chuckled bitterly at his steaming mug. "Yeah, well, we know better, don't we?" he confided to the sludgy brown liquid. A passing constable gave him a strange look but had the sense to say nothing.

He continued his stroll around the department to stretch his legs. He'd been out all night following up on the case at hand and was left, now, with the tedious part: putting the whole damned gnarled skein of the matter straight, after which he could shout at a constable to put the derbies on some bloke or other, and then he could go home to _sleep_.

His steps led him to the front where he was drawn by voices pitched in contempt and humor. Curiously, he peeked around the corner to spy Gregson (_infernal know-it-all_, Lestrade sneered childishly) and Inspector Franklin (_hot-headed fool, doomed to get someone killed one day_) laughing at a sergeant's report.

"No, he _really _said that."

Gregson wiped a hand across his eyes, breathing deeply to quell his laughter. "I keep hearing so much of this boy and he sounds a ruddy crackpot."

Inspector Franklin grinned wickedly. "I discovered a bit about him – do you know he dropped out of University? 'Parently he was a rather promising lad in the field of chemistry but now—"

"_Now_," Gregson interrupted, "he runs around trying to be clever and sending us silly messages."

Franklin's smile turned hard. "Well, never mind him, Sergeant. Next time he hangs around a case, you've full right to send the chap off. Or _arrest _him, none too gently if it comes to it. Maybe an evening spent inside a jail might set the lad straight."

"Who?" Lestrade questioned dumbly, stepping into the conversation. Gregson grinned.

"You're looking a bit tired, Lestrade. What's the matter? Rodney case proving difficult for you? I could help, if you'd like."

Lestrade gave an unpleasant smile in return and asked a second time. "Who's this lad you're talking about?"

"_Sherlock Holmes_," Franklin sneered. "An upstart who's taken it into his head that he can solve crimes. From the sidelines, no less. And who had the arrogance to suggest this morning that – what was it he said, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Albright cleared his throat. "He asked that I inform Inspector Franklin here that, _verbatim_, 'Franklin would be better advised to check on the last time the victim met his tailor than to continue searching for his fiancé."

"His _tailor_?" Lestrade demanded incredulously.

Gregson was giggling again. "Bit of a non-sequitur, isn't it?"

Franklin shook his head. "Either way, I'm beginning to take offense to this… Mr. Holmes. He's had the gall before to complain to a constable about my 'unintelligent and violent methods'."

Lestrade kept his mouth shut. He was not the only person in the Yard who wondered if Franklin sometimes took things too far. He tactfully shrugged behind his coffee.

The four men traded updates about recent happenings at the yard for a few minutes before Lestrade excused himself. It was getting towards evening and he still had the Rodney case to finish up before he could get home to bed. He had the sinking suspicion that he would need to travel out to that flat in Islington one last time to see—

There was a commotion in the lobby as several constables, keeping hold of a well-dressed man in his forties with some difficulty, called for Inspector Franklin. Behind the struggling men came another three; a young man more supported than restrained between their grasp.

Franklin and Gregson came rushing in behind Lestrade. "What is the meaning of this?" Franklin shouted incredulously.

"We responded to a police whistle outside Cork Street in Mayfair and found these men in the midst of an… altercation," one constable finished lamely.

"More loik an 'ttempted murder, whot wif the way Mr. Olliard 'ad this lad 'tween his hands—"

The 'lad' raised his head and stumbled to regain his balance, trying to pull away slightly from the officers beside him. Franklin gave an angry shout and bore down on the hapless fellow.

"_Mr. Holmes_, why won't you _stay out of business that doesn't involve you_!"

Lestrade's attention riveted on the young man. He was tall and very thin – too thin, his wife would have said, the boy looked as if he could do with a good meal – with a hawkish face and mess of, now disheveled, dark hair. He was absently straightening his collar, although the recent bruises peeped beyond its confine.

Sherlock Holmes drew himself regally up, but Lestrade knew better. He could see all of the signs of sleeplessness and missed meals. This evening in particular, he was well familiar with the feeling.

"I present the tailor of the victim, Francois Olliard, who has been indelicate enough to shout his guilt at the constables currently struggling to arrest him."

The Inspector swiveled in surprise to the constables in question. "_What?!_"

"'S true. He confessed and all, 'though he also threatened Mr. Holmes' life a few times and called you a 'bleedin' inco—'"

"Enough! Constables, for the love of Heaven, just take the man down to a cell. And as for _you Mr. Holmes-"_

Lestrade held up a hand quickly. "Ah, Allen, why don't I take charge of this."

Holmes' intense gaze swept to Lestrade in some confusion. Lestrade smoothly (infuriatingly, to Franklin) placed himself between the livid Inspector and the amateur crime-solver, a hand going protectively to the boy's shoulder.

Franklin began to protest until Lestrade reminded him that his case seemed to have progressed and needed his attention. With a parting, venomous glare fixed at Sherlock Holmes, Franklin swept away to follow his constables.

Holmes began to protest as Lestrade led him to the door. Lestrade's grip tightened, and he instructed in an undertone. "Come, lad, trust me. You don't know how close you just came to being arrested. Or worse."

Holmes blinked in surprise, and his face turned dark in understanding. Lestrade patted his shoulder. "I doubt that fool Franklin will thank you, so why don't I treat us both to dinner. I daresay we could both use it. _And _I doubt an hour away from that damn case will make much difference," he muttered to himself.

Holmes, however, heard. His eyebrows lifted in interest and, as the two exhausted men made their way to an obliging restaurant, he pronounced the fateful question: "A case?"


	6. W Y Traveller: Inspector Jack Frost

_NOTE: As soon as I read this prompt, a billion ideas came to mind, and I spent a great deal of a drive home last night turning over the possibilities with little success in my head. I finally settled on this idea, wrote a bit last night, a bit this morning, and now I've typed up the remainder on my phone while I sit on a bus (which is more difficult than I had first supposed). We've ended up with: another young Holmes adventure! Wahoo! _

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><p><span>From W. Y. Traveller - <strong>Inspector Jack Frost (or 'Frost')<strong>

"Are you sure you must leave, Mr. Holmes? I'm not sure you realize just how cold it gets up here."

Holmes hid a shudder. He had been asked to consult on a case up north as a favor to a friend of a friend – _and this is the very last time I allow Victor to cajole me into solving such a lackluster puzzle, struggling to pay rent or not – _and he had long since grown weary of the effusive rural hospitality.

Not to mention the very, _very _friendly attentions of _Miss Danielle_.

"No, it is quite alright," Holmes said quickly, voice involuntarily shifting upwards a degree as he spied the very same fluff of blonde hair and wide eyes. The young Danielle was of courting age, and it appeared as if her mind was set to snatch up the eligible Mr. Sherlock Holmes and move to London. As such, Holmes' weekend was spent in equal measures discovering the whereabouts of some long lost family documents and fleeing her talkative advances. To be perfectly honest, it was the latter task that had proven most difficult, for the girl was, in a word, tenacious.

"It's really no trouble! Papa would be delighted to have you stay a little bit longer!" She smiled winsomely, moving as closely as she could to the object of her affection (who discretely side stepped to maintain a tenuous distance of twelve inches).

"I assure you, I shall be fine. I grew up the youngest son of a country squire and am well used to traversing snowy woods." Mentally, he was shocked at himself. It took a desperate situation indeed to pull out _that_ information to use for a defense.

Slowly, inexorably, he made his way to the door. It took three assurances that he would be careful, two additional refusals to stay longer, and four times to repeat the name of the Inn he'd be staying at in town before he finally, resolutely, shut the door and heaved a sigh of relief.

Feeling the disappointed gaze of a certain petite blonde at the window, the fledgling detective took himself speedily down the path skirting the woods.

Once free, he let his attention wander. The sky above was overcast and reflected a somber, neutral harmony with the browns, tans, and blacks of a winter landscape. The trees were silhouetted against the sky like delicate ebony filigree, the crushed dead grass a mere muffle of carpeting beneath the tread of his thick boots. After a weekend with a very loud and personable family, the isolation and silence was soothing, and Holmes threw his head back to take a great lungful of cold, clean air.

It was not past four in the afternoon, he knew; but up north, here almost on the edges of Scotland, the nighttime came quickly. This fact, coupled with the thrill of freedom he was enjoying, caused him to walk faster as his path took him inside and through the woods that separated him from town.

A fleet-footed young man could make the trip in little more than half-an-hour, although the continual inclines and descents in the terrain could leave one breathless. Holmes, while not necessarily athletic, was fit, and this evening he relished the challenge of exercise.

His thoughts were drawn away from the monotony of footsteps (_step, step, step, quick running steps down the slope again, round this thin turn_) and to London. What would he do upon returning? Luckily, this case had put a little bit more money into his pocket, and the rent would be covered for the next month or two. Hopefully, he could acquire another, but it was more likely he would have to take up a job elsewhere. Perhaps at the British Museum, or the hospital where the students worked.

Frowning, he navigated a tricky narrow stretch with only half a mind. Would that hospital hire people? Especially chemistry students who'd not even finished univers—

His left foot slid out from under him and he gasped, arm flailing in an attempt to catch some of the brush beside him. He fell to his right knee, hard, his hands uselessly grabbing at the earth as this tenuous last connection, too, also slid away. Then he was slipping down the heavy slope, rocks and twigs tearing at his tumbling body.

The air fled from his lungs as the rolling impact came harder, and the last that he recalled was a crushing pain in his head and a fleeting realization of hopelessness.

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><p>When he awoke again, it was to a miserably cold and wet sensation.<p>

He was sprawled out on his side and front. The hand that lay before his eyes –

Was white? But he was wearing black gloves.

He grimaced, trying to flex his fingers. The white fell away like a cloak, and he slowly realized that it had snowed half an inch while he'd lain unconscious.

He blinked slowly and continued to frown, not bothering to lift his cheek from the ground. If the snow was white, then what was the red? There were spots of it, just there, before his nose.

Perhaps his eyes drifted shut again. It would explain the return of white blanketing across his left hand. Irritably, Holmes shook the snow off again.

Something was wrong. Despite the distracting feeling of cold and the awful thumping in his ears, a sensible part of his mind was cognizant enough to shout at him – _this isn't right_.

With a heavy grunt, he lifted himself onto his elbows. When his face contorted in pain, he felt something crackle along his forehead. Gingerly, he shook his head to rid his hair of its accumulation of snow.

The dumb, petulant thought that his hair was also black, like his gloves, crossed his attention, and it took a moment to return his mind to the task at hand. Again, that sensible part of his mind was shouting at him: _This is very not good_.

In the distance, he thought he heard his name. He lifted his head as far as he was able, still lying with his weight upon his elbows. Again, the sound came.

Well, he didn't have time to bother with voices. Slowly, he worked his knees beneath him. He gave a surprised yelp when he put pressure on what must be a spectacular bruise upon the right knee. He closed his eyes, rallying his thoughts again.

Thoughts that were frustratingly scattered away for the third or fourth time when a shout of his name came mere feet away from him.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Suddenly there were two hands behind his shoulders, carefully lifting him into a slow stand. Holmes groaned as the change in altitude set his head to fire and he unwittingly slumped into the grip holding him.

"Alright, now, none of that. Wake up, you silly fool."

_Silly fool?_

Petulantly, Holmes brought his legs under his direction again and stood (although still with much assistance from the hands behind him) and opened bleary eyes to glare at this newcomer.

His observations were disjointed, but they came to his mind all the same. The man was in his fifties or sixties, to judge by the well-cut white hair and mustache, and the lines along his eyes – he was a stocky man, which spoke more to muscle and fitness than fat and leisure.

Brilliantly blue eyes were frowning at him. They were intelligent, and they were currently assessing his condition. Holmes cleared his throat and mumbled, "Inspector?"

The white eyebrows shot upwards. "I am, at that. And you are undoubtedly Mr. Holmes."

He closed his eyes, although not so much as a conscious decision. The Inspector's hand came to rest first upon his forehead, then two fingers upon his neck. They finished their circuit by tapping him none too politely on the cheek.

"No, come on lad. We'll need you awake on the walk back. Stand up for me."

Holmes did as he was told, his pride taking a degree of offense at this man's tone. He stood as straight as he was able, although he did not ever remember the task being so difficult before. The Inspector removed his huge, thick overcoat and draped it across Holmes' shoulders.

The additional weight was almost too much for him, but the Inspector quickly pulled Holmes' arm around him and locked his arm along his back. "Come on, you foolish boy," he said gruffly. "One step in front of the other."

_Foolish?! _

Anger spurred his steps along and he lifted his head defiantly. _Who are you to call me foolish?_

The blue eyes that glanced at him were momentarily relieved, at odds with the ferocity of his tone earlier. But they hardened again and he replied, "I'm only the Inspector 'round these parts. And folks here are smarter than to try the wood paths in the dark in wintertime."

A flush rose along Holmes' neck. He hadn't thought he'd spoken aloud. He cleared his throat again. "How did you know to look for me here?"

The Inspector frowned, and asked after a moment, "Sorry, try that one more time."

What was wrong? Why couldn't… He obliged, speaking more slowly this time. "How did you know… to look for me here?"

"Mr. Delaney was worried about you and regretted not walking with you to the Inn. He took the longer way around to get to town, but when he realized you hadn't made it to the Inn, he alerted me."

Holmes was concentrating on the difficult task of stumbling uphill and breathing, otherwise he would have asked the Inspector's name.

When they made the top of the path, Holmes was obliged to lean more generously upon his rescuer. There was a haze in his memory, but he thought he remembered the man asking him questions. Had he answered?

He became momentarily lucid as he spied the opening in the woods and the lights of a town some two miles ahead. He hadn't realized he'd groaned aloud; but there came a soothing word from the man beside him and the arm slipping from the Inspector's shoulder was seized and drawn tighter.

Somewhere along the way, his eyes had closed, for he was awoken by his arm being drawn tight along the Inspector's shoulder another time. He was saying something urgent to him, but he couldn't understand. There were lights up ahead, though. If the Inspector really needed something, couldn't he just ask one of them?

His head hurt, but he was being lulled away by the steady clop of his footsteps. It was mesmerizing; the tilting colors before his eyes, the crunch of the snow; he almost felt as if he was floating along, for the person beside him seemed almost to be doing the walking for him.

There were others, now. Why couldn't they just go away? He wanted solitude. That farm house had been so crowded…

His right arm was lifted without his approval and he was borne across a doorstep into a warm – so gloriously warm – bright room. He winced away from the light, but his body continued forward, coming to rest along something very soft and comfortable.

The jumble of colors and lights and sounds remained unresolved to his bewildered consciousness, but that was alright, because he was tired, and he wanted to sleep, and someone else could take care of those things. For now, he could just sleep.

He opened his eyes a final time when a hand prodded around at the stiff part on his forehead. He groaned, and his gaze was met with the blue eyes from before. Several heavy things were being lain across his body, and within their warming confine, his eyes drifted leadenly shut.

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><p>Waking with little knowledge as to where or when he was, Holmes decided, was growing old.<p>

Slowly, he opened his eyes and peered around the room. He was in a bed piled with several blankets, washed in flickering hues of orange from the blazing fire across the room. He was surprised to note that he was not sweltering hot - indeed, a lassitude and cold feeling still pulled at his limbs, although not nearly as dreadfully as had been the case... Hours? A day before?

Slowly, he sat up, his elbows behind him. He was appalled by the weak feeling that accompanied the movement.

"Ahh. Good to see you awake again, Mr. Holmes."

The man that had been sitting quietly beside his bed in shirtsleeves bookmarked his place in a book and stood, sidling over to the bed with a faintly amused smile on his lips.

"Inspector," Holmes greeted lamely. He looked around the room another time. "I believe I have you to thank for getting me out of an... Er..."

"... Rather difficult situation?" The blue eyes twinkled under a smile.

"Yes." Holmes waited expectantly for the man to introduce himself, but he appeared content to watch the disoriented Holmes struggle against propriety. Finally, the young detective gave an exasperated sigh. "Alright, thank you. Now, _who are you precisely_?"

The man, no stranger to humor it appeared, laughed deeply. "Inspector John Frost, at your service. My friends call me Jack."

Holmes felt his eyebrows shoot to his hairline. He questioned drily, "_Jack Frost_?"

His chuckle resembled more a mischievous giggle than a grown man's dignified laugh. "A bit of fun between myself and the locals." He pulled his chair closer to the bed and sat again. All of the gruffness from last night had utterly vanished, and Holmes realized that it had been an act to make him angry and rouse him from his dangerous drowsiness. "I grew up a bit further north of here. I've always loved the cold, and before I became an Inspector with the police, I used to help shovel and clear the snow around town and in front of neighbor's doors. I became unfortunately familiar with the dangers of winter, as many of us in these parts have done, and have more than once discovered a body lost to the chill."

He fixed Holmes with a stern look, who had the sense to lower his eyes in mute apology.

The kind man leant forward and clapped Holmes' blanketed leg reassuringly. "You're here now, lad, so rest up." He threw a gesture towards Holmes' head. "You apparently had a nasty crack when you fell."

Holmes lifted a hand to finger a rough cut under his hairline. "It stopped bleeding quickly enough," Frost continued conversationally, "and the doctor didn't need to stitch it up. Still, you'll want to go easily for a few days. Not that the cold is going to let you feel all that sprightly."

Holmes chuckled ruefully. "I believe I know what you mean." His every movement felt sluggish and weighed down.

Frost nodded with a smile. "Well, let's see about getting some warm tea in you, and then you can rest again." He stood and stretched, clomping over to the door in his heavy police boots.

In a rare temper of gratefulness, Holmes raised his voice. "Inspector Frost?"

The white haired gentleman turned with a questioning hum. Softly, Holmes said 'thank you'.

Years later, in a warm sitting room with a dear friend, Holmes would stare out at the falling snow and remove his pipe. "Watson, did I ever tell you about the time I met Jack Frost?"


	7. Catherine Spark: Tobogganing

_NOTE: AHHHhhh this didn't come together as cleanly as I would have liked, but here we are. Holmes was getting so much attention, it was time for a look at young John Watson. The second sentence is _literally_ what my med school friend (and real life personal John Watson) sent me when I told her to "say a medical school science thing regarding anatomy". Applause for my awesome friend!_

_ADDITIONAL NOTE: Also, it was while I was trying to figure out if I'd done everything right with posting this that I realized it sounded familiar, and that Ennui Enigma wrote a similar meeting of Stamford and Watson. IT WAS ABSOLUTELY NOT MY INTENTION, I apologize for writing something so similar in theme. _

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><p><span>From Catherine Spark – <span>**Tobogganing**

"John."

_The brachial plexus can be organized into roots, trunks, divisions, cords and branches._

"_Jooooohn._"

_The brachia – no, wait, what did the professor say about- _

"Watson."

He gave a testy sigh and ground out between clenched teeth, "_Go. Away_." He hadn't even bothered looking up from his notes. Whoever this disturbance was, he was insane, or harbored a death wish. Or both. _The brachial plexus—_

A balled up bit of paper bounced against his forehead accompanied by a stifled snort of amusement.

Watson lifted his head, right hand shooting across the table blindly to find something – anything – to throw, preferably something sharp. Recognizing the dark haired boy, he snapped, "_Stamford-for-the-love-of-Heaven, _we have exams this week and I will _end you—_"

Stamford continued giggling; although, recognizing the very real danger of bothering a medical student before exams, lifted his hands in a placating fashion. "Okay, okay, calm down."

Finding no other projectile that would suit his need, Watson seized up the paper ball and pelted it at the younger man. The result was more laughter, much to his irritation.

He slumped back in his chair and put his throbbing head into his hands. He heard the chair opposite scrape away and someone plunk into it. He groaned.

"You have _three _empty cups of tea sitting here," Stamford observed matter-of-factly.

"I also have _three_ textbooks open. At the same time." Watson opened his eyes and tapped the table with a fake look of incredulousness. "Almost as if… I'm _studying_."

Again, the younger student grinned, and Watson began looking around again for something to murder him with.

"Watson, what I'm trying to say is that you need a break." Stamford stood and looked the older student up and down as if trying to prescribe a remedy. After a moment he nodded decisively. "Come on. We're going tobogganing."

Watson ceased his search for a weapon and stared at Stamford incredulously. His mind was a haze of medical terms and anxiety, and the verb _tobogganing_ had absolutely no context. Neither did the niceties of social decorum, and so after a stunned silence he finally spluttered, "Stamford we _literally_ only talk when we work together. What the hell do you want from me now?"

The insufferable grin didn't even waver. "Tobogganing."

"… You keep saying that."

"Yes, that's because you're taking a break and going tobogganing."

He had barely slept the past week. His final examinations for the semester were coming up. Watson was positive that if he closed his eyes, it would be to review the entire muscular system in his dreams. And now there was a student a year younger than himself, whom he barely knew, ordering him to do something he hadn't done since he was a little boy.

He had just opened his mouth to inform Stamford of these thoughts when his arm was seized and he was pulled out of his chair.

"Come on, enough talk, get moving—"

"_Stamford what the hell is wrong with you—"_

"Outside, get moving—"

"Isn't there _anybody else in this wretched school you can pester_—"

"I'll leave you to melt your brain _after_ you've been outside an hour—"

"_An HOUR?! _I-I can't spend a whole _hour—_"

"Oh, come _on_, it's a just an _hour_, your brain will thank me!"

With several heads having long since turned to watch the disturbance, Watson and Stamford eventually stumbled out the door onto the slushy London sidewalk.

Three hours later, when the two young men returned from a park with red faces, heaving breath, and broad smiles, Watson offered to buy Stamford a lunch sometime. It was an offer made absently and their schedules and attentions never gave Watson the chance to complete the offer.

That is, not until a handful of years later.


	8. Ennui Enigma: Holmes meets Conan Doyle

_NOTE: From what I understand, some of Doyle's friends felt that he resembled Holmes in certain ways. Well, taking from that, and the very vitriolic relationship he had with his character later on in life, I could only come to the conclusion that the two would... well, not... really... get along... so well... They'd be respectful of each other, certainly. But I can't help but feel their interactions would be a tad strained. Great fun to write, though. ;) _

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><p><span>From Ennui Enigma - <span>**Holmes meets Conan Doyle**

Holmes knocked several times at the Watson's door and gave his hat, coat, and gloves to the absent-minded maid who opened it. She might have protested when he pushed past her; but she was a shy young woman, and she was, besides, much used to the eccentric manner of the Doctor's old friend, Mr. Holmes.

Mary, however, met him in the hallway. "Mr. Holmes, how good to see you."

He smiled graciously, although she was able to see that the detective was eager to see her husband. He opened his mouth to say as much before she held up a hand.

"He's meeting with his editor at the moment. I'm sure their business will be finished up in the next five minutes."

A look of impatience flickered across his face, and Mary lifted an eyebrow. She adored Mr. Holmes, of course; without him, she would never have met John, and Holmes was a beloved friend to them both. However, he could be a bit jealous of Watson's attentions at times, and he did not always think highly of her husband's business. As his wife, she felt protective, and she fixed the detective with a look of mild censure.

"Five minutes, Mr. Holmes, that is all. I'll let John know you're here."

Recognizing that he'd just been mutely scolded, the detective's lips pursed together. With gentlemanly dignity, however, he nodded in affirmation and turned to wait in the drawing room.

As promised, Watson finished his meeting in only a few minutes and entered the sitting room with a broad grin. "Holmes! It's good to see you, dear fellow. I thought you'd still be away on that case!"

The detective stood quickly, his energy and impatience returning at the sight of his dearest friend. "Ah, Watson! Actually, it is in the interest of the case that I've stopped— Oh, excuse me."

A second gentleman had followed Watson into the drawing room with a look of interest. He was stockier than Watson and his mustache a bit longer, twisting upwards at the edges. Holmes frowned at the man with a certain amount of apprehension, an aristocratic eyebrow raised as he appraised the editor.

"It seems literary doctors are becoming a fad," he observed quietly.

The editor grinned and glanced at Watson with a knowing look. Politely, he nodded. "Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle. And you must be—"

"Sherlock Holmes. How good to finally meet you." They shook hands, and Watson was somewhat unnerved to note by the white knuckles that Holmes' grip was tighter than perfectly necessary. Drily, Holmes continued, "I have often times heard Watson remark as to efficacy of his editor's involvement."

Doyle's brow scrunched together at the multi-meaning comment and Watson flushed, stammering into a different topic. "Ah – Doctor Doyle and I have been discussing the next round of cases to be published with the _Strand._ We believe that they shall be met quite favorably."

"Indeed," Doyle replied, peering at the mild face of the detective. "The short story format will perhaps be better suited to the comparative brevity of your less sensational cases."

Holmes smiled, but it was hollow. "Which is not to say, of course, that the 'sensational' shall be entirely missing from the accounts."

Watson was struck silent at the crackling undercurrent of the conversation. Incredulously, and with the faintest traces of offense, he stared at his friend.

Doyle, however, did not back down from the mute challenge. "When writing on the cleverness and malice of man, one is hardly able to forgo the more fantastic elements."

Holmes hummed in acknowledgement. "Still, I would have expected the accounts to have a more… scientific atmosphere."

Doyle shook his head with a hard glint in his eyes. "It is hardly exact science which allows for grievously human mistakes." He lifted his gaze and said calmly, although with the same air as a boxer settling into his stance, "How would one explain in a scientific monograph that the case was a failure because the detective allowed himself to be followed, and fooled, by an actress dressed in male clothing? Unless, of course, you would prefer Dr. Watson to work un-truths into his stories."

Watsons' shocked attention swiveled between his editor and former roommate. Holmes' eyes had grown wide, the muscles of his jaw tensing once or twice. However, he appeared incapable of speech for several moments. Watson was unsure as to whether this was due to surprise or offense. Or to hurt.

After few seconds silence, Doyle chuckled. Not unkindly, he continued on a different tact. "Mr. Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet the man to whom much attention and accolade has already been given, and surely _will_ be given. You rather remind me of an old professor I had back in university. Terribly clever, the both of you. I have no doubt that your mind is one of the few truly suited to this form of analytical work, especially in this century; and I rather hope others shall look to your example in the future. The tenants of justice would benefit much from studying your work."

"You are kind to say so," Holmes responded finally, face bland once more. Civility seemed to have returned, although the two men remained somewhat wary of one another.

Watson cleared his throat. "Dr. Doyle, I believe Holmes had some business to discuss with me. I'll send note along when next we should meet."

Doyle nodded, turning to Watson with a great deal more friendliness than he'd shown Holmes. "Of course, John. And do remember to take notes," he added with a wink. He shook Watson's hand, but when he turned towards the detective, refrained. Instead the two men nodded to one another, murmuring their goodbyes.

As the door closed, Holmes let out a breath explosively. "Watson, how-_ever_ can you _stand _that man?!"

Unbeknownst to him, Doyle was thinking the very same thing – except, in regards to Sherlock Holmes.

While Doyle and Holmes would never become good acquaintances, Watson noted a grudging respect between the two. And, for Watson's sake at least, the two refrained from any further verbal fencing matches.


	9. Stutley Constable: Sea Charts

_NOTE: PHEWW, I finished this right at 11:59. I did _not_ expect this to be as long as it is. I forgot how much time Mycroft takes to speak. He was quite determined to take things slowly, and I could do naught but oblige._

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><p><span>From Stutley Constable - <span>**Sea charts**

"You know something about this," Watson muttered accusingly.

Holmes, who was seated beside him in the clattering hansom cab, remained unperturbed. "I have no idea what you mean to imply."

"Tell me, Holmes. How often does your brother see fit to contact you? Through telegram or otherwise?"

The aristocratic eyebrows lifted. "I should think that is of little concern to you."

Watson scowled and noted the faintest twinge of amusement in his companion's eyes. "I only mean to say, if your brother contacts you as _rarely_ as I suppose—"

"—and it _is_ a supposition, dear fellow—"

"—_Holmes! – _If as _rarely_ as I suppose, then why_-ever _has he sent a telegram along requesting _me_?"

Holmes lifted his shoulders in an incurious shrug. "Why should I know?"

"Because it is your 'business to know what other people do not know,'" Watson quoted with a lofty tilt of his head, giving a fair impression of Sherlock Holmes in one of his haughtier moods. However, the detective's only reaction was to smirk and look away. When it became apparent that Holmes would say no more, Watson crossed his arms and sighed. "You are perfectly useless," he declared bitterly. He felt Holmes' shoulders start to shake and he turned his head to see the detective laughing softly.

The cabman dropped them off at the Diogenes and the pair entered quietly through the club and into the Stranger's Room. Mycroft Holmes was already seated inside, peering at the contents of a thick folder which lay scattered across the table.

"Ah, Dr. Watson! And Sherlock. Good to see you so _nearly_ on time." The heavy man glared mutely at his younger brother whose expression was the picture of innocence.

The unspoken accusation was correct; they had only arrived late because Sherlock had wanted to pester his brother. Of course, Watson did not know _how_ Mycroft had come to this accurate conclusion. He didn't bother to ask. He suspected, however, that it was derived from an intuition known only to elder brothers.

"Well, come on in, Dr. Watson. Please do sit at the table, I've already asked that tea be brought up. I shall just gather up these documents." Mycroft quickly snatched one from the attentions of his younger brother. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and sat down, gazing about the room with an expression of boredom.

In short order, Mycroft's papers were stowed away and the tea brought in and set. With a deep sigh, the elder Holmes lowered his body into the remaining chair, taking a moment afterwards to appraise Watson and Sherlock. Under Mycroft's scrutiny, the doctor was unable to keep from fidgeting, his hand going unconsciously to straighten his collar.

"Well, my dear Doctor," he finally began, his deep voice grave, "we'll just have it out plainly."

Watson felt a shiver of discomfort, sneaking a glance at Sherlock for any indication of what was about to be said. To his chagrin, the detective was perfectly stony-faced, gaze resolutely fixed to study the cup of tea before him.

"As I remember it, you began rooming with my brother in 1881. While you moved away during the years of your marriage," Mycroft nodded his head politely in memory of the late Mary Watson, "you remained a companion to Sherlock until the business with Professor Moriarty. It was only in the spring of this year that the two of you resumed your acquaintance."

Watson said nothing, only listened in apprehension to the strange cataloging of his friendship. His heart still stuttered with a sharp feeling at the reminder of his marriage, and of the three years in his life that would always be defined by a sense of loss.

"Knowing Sherlock's reticence, I have no doubt that you knew little of me prior to that case involving my former neighbor, Mr. Melas. However, I have known you since you began renting rooms at Baker Street."

Watson swallowed uneasily. Mycroft, however, continued in his eerily detached, clinical manner. "By my count, that brings your association with my little brother to twelve years, not including the three in which you knew him, but were unable to associate with him." Mycroft stared at the doctor in the hawkish manner that apparently came very naturally to a Holmes. Sherlock remained passive and silent, only adding to Watson's growing sense of worry.

"This information is, of course, known to us all. I have taken time to reiterate the facts so that this business may be better understood."

If Watson hadn't already been nervous before, he went perfectly still now. His mind scrambled to piece together the Holmes brothers' strange demeanor and the peculiar conversation. Mycroft stood slowly and ambled towards a desk by the window. Watson shot his companion a desperate glance, but as before, the detective made no motion to reply.

From a wide drawer, Mycroft withdrew an old and battered black tube. He crossed the room once more and gently began loosening the cap from the tube.

Anxiety was momentarily replaced by curiosity, and Watson leaned forward as Mycroft carefully unrolled several sheets of vellum. Sherlock, for the first time since Mycroft had begun his speech, turned his attention to watch Watson's reaction.

"These," Mycroft announced, "are sea-charts, compiled by our great uncle on our father's side."

Indeed, as the sheets were flattened, Watson was able to see the delicate, multi-colored lines arcing and crossing one another. His eyes grew wide and he stood to better look at the maps.

"Why, these are… magnificent," Watson breathed. He was too preoccupied to notice the younger Holmes' smile. After a moment, however, he came back to himself and blinked, looking at Mycroft in bewilderment. "Wait – I don't follow. What do sea-charts have to do with my friendship to Holmes – I mean, your brother," he amended hastily.

Mycroft stared in confusion. "What do – Dr. Watson, they are a gift. I thought that was understood."

Watson reflected Mycroft's baffled expression perfectly. "I – a _gift_? What was all of that grave business about how long I've known Hol—err, Sherlock – to do with –"

Slowly, Mycroft's pronouncement settled into his mind, and Watson stopped mid-sentence, mouth dropping. "Wait. These are… you're giving these to me?"

"But of course!" Mycroft replied in exasperation. "What else did you think you were coming here for – and in December no less! I thought my brother had explained the particulars—"

The third occupant at the table began laughing; a deep, warm sound that was heard very infrequently. For a short while he was unable to stop, even as he was met with a disgruntled pair of demands for explanation. Eventually he sat back and regained his breath, mirth written plainly upon his face.

"I apologize, my dear Watson, but you are aware that I _do _appreciate the occasional dramatics. I thought the surprise would be infinitely satisfying, and I was able to see by your reaction that my estimation was not far from the mark."

"But… Holmes, I don't understand. What are these? Where – why are you—"

"Because my cad of a brother has not seen fit to provide you with the details," Mycroft interrupted, sitting himself once more with an irritated huff, "allow me to explain. Upon the death of our father, certain family heirlooms were passed into my care. Among these items were these maps, penned by a late relative, which you see before you. Sherlock and I discussed the matter in some length. It is neither an emotional fancy nor a spark of facetiousness that prompts me to say that you are like a brother to my brother, and as such, to me." Watson opened his mouth to make some surprised utterance, but Mycroft lifted a hand. "As I have said, this is not emotional flippancy. This is simply a fact; a conclusion drawn from much information proving it to be so.

"Neither Sherlock nor myself have a great deal of attachment for these charts. While they may become valuable in the future, our finances are well suited enough that we need not keep them. Their intrinsic value would go unnoticed by us, for we are not given to the romanticism of trinkets."

Unbidden came the thought of Holmes' top desk drawer: the museum of trophies acquired from several of his past cases. Too, the sovereign dangling from Holmes' watch chain came to mind. He pushed these facts away for later consideration.

Sherlock took up the explanation from his brother. "However, we have no doubt that you, Watson, will better understand the value of these charts. I know you to be an enthusiast of some small measure, at least given your preference of nautical fiction. And," he added quietly, looking down and carefully choosing his words, "I confess that there is a certain… symbolism, which you may perhaps appreciate." He looked up once more and smiled warmly. He spread his hands and shrugged. "Merry Christmas."

Watson expressed his thanks broadly, eagerly examining the charts and pointing out small particulars of information to the Holmes brothers before their attention waned. It was not until Sherlock and he had returned home that Watson gave the matter further thought.

In his room, he laid his new treasure upon a top shelf and stared at it, wondering at the generosity of his friend. Sitting at his writing desk, Watson reflected on Mycroft's speech. The longer he considered the charts, the more value in them he perceived. They would remain in his ownership until his death; after which, they were passed into the hands of his grandchildren, who had grown up on stories of their grandfather and his adventures with Sherlock Holmes.

Although not for the same reasons, they remained a cherished heirloom.

* * *

><p><em>note: Holmes didn't want me to explain the symbolism outright (he was probably embarrassed, dear fellow), so I leave that to you.<em>


	10. Poseidon God of the Seas: Gift to Holmes

_NOTE: Does anybody else occasionally have the problem where they've read a fanfiction that so perfectly explores an idea, it's almost impossible to recreate it? I've worked my way around the problem before, but with this one... _

_I decided to continue from my previous prompt-answer because the subjects flowed so nicely with one another. BUT HERE'S THE THING. We all know KCS and PGF, right? Well, in their collaboration entitled _That Whiter Host_, they had Holmes and Watson giving Christmas gifts in the first year following Holmes' return. And I've always felt that Watson's gift was just... spot-on; meaningful and special and as good an idea as to establish it in my head as iron-clad fanon. _

_As such, I apologize. This may be a bit of a cop out. But I've written here an introspective prelude for Watson deciding on that gift. Go check out the first chapter of that story - it happens right off, so it shouldn't take too long to familiarize yourself. Again, apologies if this isn't a good answer to the prompt. BUT IT WAS SUCH A GOOD IDEA. _

_In fact, if you haven't already read their collaborations, then what are you doing here? GO READ THEM. _

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><p><span>Poseidon - God of the Seas - <span>**Watson can't think of what to get Holmes for Christmas.**

Watson stared discretely at his friend who was standing near the window, back turned, playing the Stradivarius. Only yesterday, they had stopped by the Diogenes club so that the Holmes brothers could give him a gift. Distractedly, Watson's gaze flicked upwards, his mind seeing the battered black tube that lay on a shelf above his books and old military relics.

He planned to have one of the maps carefully framed; that way, he would be able to view and study it without worrying about damaging it. He would consult a professional, he had decided.

However, before he did that, he had a more pressing matter to consider.

_What kind of gift should I give Holmes?_

He listened to his friend's gentle playing and reflected on the previous eight months. Upon Holmes' return, the two men had spent much of their time together renewing their friendship. After all, one can hardly spend three years away from a person without changing; both of them had changed, _been_ changed by their circumstances. It took time for them to become comfortable in each other's presence again and to relearn the nuances of their gestures and expressions.

At first, the two friends observed and noted small changes in habit that had developed during their separation. When Holmes, for example, thought no one was listening, he would murmur a thought to himself in a foreign language (the doctor could only assume it was Tibetan). Watson, who had known fewer people when first he left the army, now visited acquaintances from his club on a more regular basis. During his travels abroad, Holmes had picked up a taste for stranger dishes, and he encouraged Watson to sample new meals when they went out to restaurants.

More troubling, however, had been the new depths of sorrow that were harbored, solitary and brooding, inside both men. Neither was prone to discussing their emotions – to anyone, really – and as a result, the easy, understanding relationship they had shared prior to 1891 met barriers after their reunion. They found themselves stepping on each other's toes in strange ways. Watson tended to be somber in evenings and desired privacy and silence more often. Holmes was unused to explaining himself, his cases, and his decisions, and he grew irritated from even a few interruptions. "Mary" was not a name spoken aloud unless the doctor broached the subject first. Holmes, likewise, would merely turn away with the flicker of a haunted expression were anyone to mention "Meiringen" and, peculiarly enough, "Milan."

Simply put, there were dark times. There were arguments, words spoken over-hastily; eventually, they came to difficult understandings. Watson remembered the time when he felt as if he was rooming with a man who'd become a stranger, and he had no doubt that Holmes had suffered similarly unsettling musings.

And yet, they had come a long way in less than a year. He remembered the sea-charts. He continued to watch his oldest friend – all the more dear for the arguments and challenges they'd faced – thoughtfully bow across the strings, a gentle and precise melody weaving through the air. He recalled the cases from the first years of their acquaintance. He ruminated on the things he'd seen Holmes take joy in.

He sighed, leaning his head back into his armchair. He had absolutely no idea how he might indicate these sentiments in a gift.

Slowly, his eyes drifted shut. The crackling of fire within the grate and the gentleness of Holmes' playing, which had lapsed into a somber minor key, began to meld in his mind. His thoughts, which had so recently drudged into the silt of old memories, wandered to relive old sights and emotions. Murkily, the colors of one slid into another. He remembered his warm chuckle when Holmes slid an over-sized and battered hat over his ears; the rush of adrenaline when a man appeared bleeding from what had once been a thumb; the first glowing coals of love when he listened to the plight of Mary Morstan.

All too quickly, though, this last memory was dwarfed by the aching feeling of loss. _No, something else. Far too weary of that pain_, Watson instructed himself blearily. However, left to the machinations of his subconscious, his mental gaze was turned to Holmes' face: that strained gaze and tense hold of his shoulders as they traveled the continent. The smiles made for Watson's benefit and the sad, distant expressions when he thought he was alone. The quiet acceptance when the boy came to fetch Watson back to the Inn.

"Watson."

He had run back when he realized the trick. It was not soon enough, but at least… At least he knew better now. He would see Holmes again. … Wouldn't he? Surely it wasn't another trick, a dream…

"Watson, old fellow, wake up."

The doctor started awake, blinking in surprise. Holmes had placed a hand upon his shoulder to wake him, his violin and bow still in the grasp of his left hand.

The detective smiled kindly. "You'll sleep far more comfortably in a bed than before a dwindling fire in an armchair."

Briefly, Watson wondered with a twinge of embarrassment if he had shown the signs of a nightmare. However, his attention was distracted by the final image of his dream before he'd been woken up, and he simply nodded in thanks to his friend.

"You're quite right. Good night, Holmes."

"Sleep well, Watson."

Once in his room, the doctor went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. Alongside some other valuables lay the cigarette case that had weighted Holmes' note at the Falls.

Watson had mentioned it once to Holmes, but it was one of the subjects that caused the detective to become quiet; as such, he had stowed it away amongst his own keepsakes.

He held the dulled silver up in the candlelight and observed it, turning it over in his hands as he considered his idea. Then, before his thoughts could be scattered away, he picked up a pen and sheet of paper, and began to write.

* * *

><p><em>note: Also, should mention; the reference to Milan is an idea I've been developing for another fic (sadly neglected) documenting Holmes' escape from Switzerland<em> (Nine Hundred Miles).


	11. Wordwielder: Failed Cookie Baking

_NOTE: Do you know what information Google isn't good at providing? It's information about Victorian ovens._

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><p><span>From Wordwielder - <span>**A failed attempt to bake Christmas cookies**.

After an evening and early morning spent out in the dark working on a stressful case, both Holmes and Watson had stumbled back to Baker Street to collapse into respective beds only a few minutes before dawn. Watson, more unused to pushing himself without sleep, only got as far as removing his waistcoat before he gave up the battle and slumped over, face smashed nearly into his pillow.

When he woke again, it was with the certainty that something was wrong.

His eyes opened and he frowned. He was lying in almost the exact same position in which he'd collapsed; although, somewhere along the way, his sleeping mind had managed to instruct an arm to dig under the comforter and sheets and draw them haphazardly up to the vicinity of his shoulders.

These were unimportant observations, however. These were not what had awoken the doctor.

Slowly, his sleepiness receded, and when the one sense that had been so alarmed managed to convey its message to his brain, his eyes widened.

_Smoke_. _It smells very awfully like smoke._

He sprang from bed and wobbled somewhat, shaking his head to try and rid it of cobwebs. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was only three hours since he and Holmes had returned home last night.

Logically, Holmes should still be asleep. But, for whatever reason (experience, most likely), his thoughts jumped instantly to accuse the detective. _What the devil is he doing awake? He should be asleep, not experimenting! _

He dashed down the stairs and opened the sitting room door.

Inside, of course, was no one.

Behind him, he heard Holmes' bedroom door open. He turned to stare at his flat-mate with some surprise – _I had thought for certain… _But no: there Holmes stood, blinking away sleepy disorientation and momentarily failing to pull a dressing gown over his night clothes. His dark hair was tousled and bits stood up comically on the left side of his head.

"_Watson_? What are…" He squinted. "Why are you dressed? Good heavens go back to _bed_, old fellow—"

"Holmes, do you smell that?"

The detective blinked owlishly again and his head tilted to the side as he, too, began to smell the burning aroma, which had only grown stronger in the intervening moments. His expression became serious and his drowsiness receded as he sensed trouble. Needlessly, he murmured his observation aloud. "Something is burni—"

He was interrupted by a feminine shout of alarm coming from the kitchen. The pair shared a startled glance before rushing quickly down the stairs.

They discovered Mrs. Hudson in the process of seizing a towel so that she may open her oven. The oven, it should be noted, was becoming steadily obscured in the escaping heavy smoke.

"No!" Holmes barked. "Mrs. Hudson! Leave it shut!"

She swiveled to stare at him in confusion as he strode over to her and took the towel from her hands. Calmly but urgently, he set about fixing the problem. "You might hurt yourself were you to remove the tray just at this moment. We must close off the ventilation, and the problem should take care of itself."

While he did so, Watson guided the flustered landlady to a chair, spying a nearly-full pot of coffee and a lone cup at the edge of the table. He took these and poured the woman what he supposed would be her second cup of coffee, pressing it into her hands.

As Holmes had predicted, the fire subsided, and he turned his hawkish attention towards Mrs. Hudson. Her hair was in disarray and her face pale, the hollow areas beneath her eyes displaying faint, dark circles.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said kindly, "if you are going to stay up late awaiting the safe return of your lodgers, then you should at least be allowed to sleep in."

Stressed, exhausted, and feeling the lingering effects of panic-driven adrenaline, the woman began to weep.

Dr. Watson took it upon himself to calm and comfort the woman, knowing full well that Holmes' skills in that department were limited by his patience. Instead, the detective surreptitiously poured himself a cup of coffee and snatched a biscuit that looked as if it had been baked last night.

Over the landlady's shaking shoulder, Watson scowled at his friend in admonishment. The detective shrugged evasively as if to say, _What? I'm hungry and tired. _

Watson rolled his eyes and refocused his attention on the distraught woman dampening his rumpled shirt front. Eventually, she began to regain her composure.

"I-I'm so sorry, sirs, that was a terribly foolish thing to do. I don't believe I've ever fallen asleep while baking before, a-and for just such a reason as _this_!" She gestured despairingly at the smoke blackened front door of the oven. "More fires have been caused b-by such – such silly mistakes." She shook her head in self-recrimination. "I am so, so awfully sorry…"

Holmes crossed the kitchen (having set his cup aside and swallowed his pilfered cookie) and examined the oven. Watson, for his part, chuckled reassuringly and shook his head. "Mrs. Hudson, there is no harm done. We are all safe and well, and for that at least we can be grateful. You were tired and accidentally fell asleep." He took up her hands in his and shook them gently, eliciting a tearful smile. "It is over now, and there is no sense getting upset."

Holmes carefully opened the oven door and pried out the black and ruined tray, holding it carefully in his hands with the towel he'd utilized earlier. Mrs. Hudson sighed at the sight of it. "Oh, but that _was_ a nice tray."

Holmes disposed of the ruined cookware and Watson, using his doctor-voice, suggested that Mrs. Hudson go back to bed for a few hours. She agreed gratefully and went to do so.

When Holmes returned, Watson yawned and stretched. "Well. I suppose we can go to bed again, too."

This suggestion was met with an unexpected frown of surprise. "Bed? But, Watson, now we're awake, and there is still work that must be done on this case."

The doctor stared blankly at the detective. His hair still stood on end and he remained dressed in dressing gown and night clothes. But the pale face appeared alert and the stern gaze was clear.

Without a shift in expression, he turned on his heel to shuffle resolutely to the stairs. "Watson?" Holmes called in surprise. There was a clattering from the kitchen and the detective soon caught up to his trudging friend, carrying the forgotten pot of coffee and a handful of biscuits on a tray. "Watson, you _can't_ be going back to bed," he demanded plaintively.

The doctor shook his head blandly. "I am doing just that old fellow."

"But! Watson!"

"Please refrain from any chemical experiments. I'll join you downstairs once I've had the accumulated decent, normal, _humane_ hours of sleep that generally accompany a twenty-four hour interval."

He closed the door. Upon the landing, Holmes huffed and turned toward the sitting room, stuffing a cookie haughtily into his mouth as a final protest.


	12. Madam'zelleGiry: Leaky 221B

_NOTE: I feel like I might be getting a bit lax in my editing and proof reading. I apologize for any awkward sentence structures!  
><em>

* * *

><p><span>From Madam'zelleGiry - <span>**The roof of 221B is leaking.**

London, with her usual cheery disposition, had seen fit to dump ongoing sheets of rain upon her inhabitants for the majority of the second week of December. Holmes was only occupied with a case that required, luckily, a great deal of research rather than foot-work. Watson, with his war wounds set to aching from the cold and the wet, was loathe to venture outside into the storm; and so both men remained gratefully indoors, enjoying the comfort of a blazing fire.

Their warm stronghold, however, was threatened when Watson went upstairs to retrieve a book and discovered first a steadily growing puddle venturing curiously along the floorboards in front of his bed.

One frustrated exclamation and a set of footsteps later, Holmes and Watson could be found staring dejectedly at the ceiling.

"Well. I suppose I should fetch a bucket," Watson said dully.

While the doctor went downstairs to steal some pots from the kitchen and alert Mrs. Hudson, Holmes took it upon himself to lower the ladder into the attic and observe the damage.

_His_ exclamation of dismay brought two pairs of footsteps up the ladder, and this time _three_ people could be found staring gloomily at the source of the trouble.

Wordlessly, Holmes took one of the pots Watson had brought with him and settled it under the alarmingly steady drizzle pattering down from the damaged roof.

Mrs. Hudson walked over to peer into a sodden box. "I'll have to go through these and root out the damaged things. It'll get mildewed if I don't." She sighed and looked at Holmes apologetically. "And after you went through all that work moving them."

Watson frowned. "What's that?"

"Ah – it's nothing," Holmes hastily diverted. He began rolling up his sleeves. "Watson, could you retrieve that ladder against the far wall and bring it here?"

Watson complied, limping somewhat under the light strain. He set it up where Holmes was peering, with aid of a lamp, at the ceiling. The detective murmured a 'thank-you' and crawled up to examine the spot where rain was seeping through.

"This shall require a professional to adequately patch up. My suspicion is that the building has lost a few roof tiles and, under this unrelenting rain, the wood has simply soaked through." He poked his finger around, water dribbling unpleasantly down his arm, and sighed when it suddenly disappeared. "Or worn through," he observed wearily, removing his finger and shaking off his wet arm.

Mrs. Hudson groaned. "This weather has shown no signs of stopping. I can't see anyone agreeing to clamber around on our roof with _this_." She gestured toward the ceiling, referring to the unpleasantly thick lash of sound outside as the storm continued its tirade.

Watson hummed absently in the affirmative. Even while his mind tried to come up with an alternate solution, he noted that his friend had a strange, pensive look on his face.

He recognized that face.

"Holmes," he said slowly and with a certain amount of apprehension. "Surely you're not considering climbing up on the roof to try and fix the problem yourself."

Holmes glanced up with a startled frown. "Watson! _Please_, don't be preposterous."

Despite the vehemence of his denial, Watson couldn't help but suspect that the thought _had_ crossed the detective's mind.

"However," Holmes began thoughtfully. "Perhaps…"

His pensive frown deepened, as it might when considering the equations of a particularly complex chemical reaction. He looked around the room searchingly and gave a cry of success when he spied a large tin bucket. He seized it with alacrity and began stalking around the room looking for something else.

Mrs. Hudson and Watson exchanged bewildered glances. "But, Mr. Holmes," the landlady interrupted, "I brought that up here months ago – it's got a hole in the side, useful for nothing. I was going to get it patched—"

"Aha!" Holmes cried again, ignoring the woman completely. This time his attention centered upon a tall stool. He brought this and the tin bucket over beneath the moderate leak, setting the one upon the other and standing back to observe the result.

For the moment, Holmes' creation was functioning decently enough. "But as soon as the water collects beyond a few inches, it's just going to pour out of that hole," the housekeeper predicted.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson, that is _precisely _what it shall do!" And with that mystifyingly chipper pronouncement, Holmes favored the woman with a fleeting grin before turning excitedly towards the attic ladder and quickly making his way down.

"Holmes!"

Watson clambered to follow with considerably less grace and speed. "Holmes, you've thought of something. Let me help!"

From downstairs in the sitting room, there was a crash. "Watson," the detective hollered. "If you would like to help, figure out some way of keeping rain from pouring through the attic window when we open it!"

Watson stopped upon the stairs. After a moment, he was unable to resist shouting back, "Holmes, old boy, that invention has already been developed. For the desired result, one simply _closes_ the window."

The dark haired figure peered around the open sitting room door with a glare. Watson threw up his hands in apology, although a smirk betrayed his lack of contrition. "Of course, Holmes. I'll begin working on it at once."

* * *

><p>Nearly an hour later, the two lodgers of Baker Street stood in the attic with their landlady, all assembled to observe their creation.<p>

Watson shook his head in admiration. "Holmes, this is deucedly clever."

The detective, always susceptible to honest compliments, smiled.

Mrs. Hudson, while pleased with the success of the contraption, shook her head. "Deucedly mad, if you ask me," she muttered. All the same, she patted her younger resident on the arm affectionately.

Extending from the tin bucket were several mismatched lengths of pipes and hollow tubes, gathered in part from Holmes' seemingly endless collection of peculiar possessions, and from re-purposed kitchen implements. They were supported by whatever boxes had been handy, their heights more precisely dictated by various junk that had accumulated in the attic.

Like Frankenstein's monster, they all connected to run like a gutter to the window. As ordered, Watson had managed a screen of pans, held against the partially open window by a great deal of surgical tape, surrounding the final, hollow tube that extended outside a few inches. Once past the window, the flow of the leak was then disgorged, filtering out into the side street where it would pester the Baker Street residents no longer.

Four days later, Mrs. Hudson was finally able to send for someone to repair the roof. When he came into the attic, the hired man could only stare. "Blimey, lady, I've 'erd of Mr. 'Olmes solvin' 'm'possible crimes and deducin' yer second aunt's 'air color or whut not. Now 'e's comin' up'a stuff like this." He had turned to stare apprehensively at the smiling woman. "You all sure 'e ain't… You know… A wee bit sparse in the 'ead?"


	13. Wordwielder: Twinkling lights

From Wordwielder - **Twinkling lights**

Watson stepped onto the ferry's deck and clapped his arms around himself as he was met by the brisk and gusty air. It took only moments to pick out the lone figure leaning pensively upon the forward rail.

Slowly, he ambled over, gazing up at the velvet black sky with its frosting of stars and listening to the sighing wind. On evenings such as this, especially upon so solitary a field as the sea, he felt the dwarfing weight of nature's vast presence. To behold the sky as a mere human being – the fathomless, daunting, exquisite sky – in an area remote of human habitation but for the grace of God and the sea's changeable patience… Always, when he beheld nature in its lonely state, he was struck by a pleasing harmony of humility and companionship. Even while he was awed, he shivered, for it awoke in him, as it does many, the child-like joy that fascinates itself with loveliness and life.

He leaned against the railing beside Holmes and took in the sight of Newhaven's distant, twinkling lights. "Awfully cold evening tonight," Watson murmured, even though the chill was not really bothering either of them. "Especially with the air off of the sea."

The detective smiled faintly, eyes transfixed upon the golden lights dotting the horizon. They stood beside each other in complacent silence for several minutes, each enjoying the frigid evening. Finally, Holmes took a deep breath, letting it out again slowly. "I always enjoy a trip to Paris, but I confess I shall be glad to return to London."

The doctor chuckled. "Dear London, with her smog and grime."

Holmes shot his friend a smirk, wagging a finger in mock censure. "Tsk, doctor. You are no less charmed by the city than I."

Watson couldn't help but submit to a fond smile. "No… I suppose you are right. London has been a home to me for a long time." His eyes grew distant as he observed the skyline. "There are many memories, Holmes."

Another minute passed before the detective spoke up again, gesturing briefly at the sights around him. "This cloudless sky, those lights in Newhaven…" His voice softened, and when he spoke again it was little more than a murmur. "When I returned from my business at Montpelier in 1894, it was very much like this."

It was rare that Holmes spoke of his time during the hiatus, and so Watson waited a cautious moment before responding with gentle humor. "Not so cold, I suppose, surely?"

Another vague smile. "No, not quite. But, it is strange." The gusting wind from the ferry's travels tugged at their coats, the snapping of the tossed fabric and the sound of spraying water the only accompaniment to their conversation. "What I remember most from that journey," Holmes continued, "besides my eagerness to return home, finish up the Moriarty case once and for all and, nearly foremost, to speak with you again, dear fellow, was how promising the lamps of Newhaven appeared in the night."

The silence between them was deeper. They stood, staring out across the lessening sea.

"It was much the same for me," Watson responded finally.

He sensed Holmes' glance flicker towards him, but he did not return the look. He kept his attention anchored upon the horizon. "It _was _cold that evening. In 1891. And…" he sighed, the memory causing his tone to reveal the slightest weariness. "I'm afraid the lights burned a bit more hollowly."

For a moment, Watson regretted spoiling their moment of companionship by dredging up an old memory. But he need not have worried, for after a moment's poignant silence, he felt Holmes lay a hand upon his shoulder.

The apology had been uttered before, and it did not need repeating in that moment. The men had grown close enough as friends, and time had filtered away enough of the pain, that the matter was understood.

Still; beneath the dark and magnificent sky, and with the warm, twinkling lights to bid them home, Holmes concluded softly, "It is an exceptional mercy that we may now stand, after so much trial, to observe the scene again – together, my old friend."

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><p><em>NOTE: This could use some cleaning up and fleshing out, but it was an atmospheric thing in my head, and I am tired (holiday hours...). Now, <strong>music recommendation<strong>! Look up Ólafur Arnalds' _3055 (Eulogy for Evolution); _it's on youtube_. _I've associated this song with Holmes' mindset during his retirement, but the beginning part before the tempo change fits the dynamic I was working towards with this prompt._


	14. I'm Nova: Watson and roses

_NOTE: Somewhat amusingly, these prompts are frequently lining up with things happening in my life. And there's a slight wink to another of today's prompt responses. ;) Youuu knowww who you are..._

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><p><span>From I'm Nova <span>**- Watson and roses**

1891

"Holmes, are you in?"

"Down here, old fellow!" The baritone voice emerged muffled from downstairs where Watson had not thought to look. He knew Mrs. Hudson had already left to visit her family, and that Billy and the maid had been dismissed from work for a few days given the holidays.

With good cheer adding spring to his step, Watson descended the stairs, just in time to see Holmes emerging curiously from the kitchen.

"Watson!" He smiled politely, eyes fastening upon Watson's hand, indicating with a quick tic of his head the bundle he grasped. "I should have thought those would be a more appropriate gift to your wife during February."

Watson held up the small bundle of roses admiringly. "They're rather nice, don't you think? Although, they are not for Mary, _precisely_." He smoothly glided to a different topic and felt a glimmer of amusement at the detective's momentary frown of thwarted inquisitiveness. He drew himself up as if making a speech.

"While I am sure you shall protest, I've come to invite you to dinner."

As predicted, Holmes opened his mouth to speak.

"No," Watson interrupted instantly, "I'm quite certain I've considered any excuse you are willing to make, and I am confident that I shall be able to refute every single one."

The light-hearted challenge did not go unnoticed, and an aristocratic eyebrow lifted skeptically. He did not smile outright, but Watson could sense that the detective was amused.

"It is Christmas Eve. Would you not prefer to celebrate the holiday exclusively with your wife? … Alone?"

Watson mirrored Holmes' quirked eyebrow in response to the understated, sly suggestion. Unruffled, he replied evenly, although with the slightest trace of smugness underlying his words, "My wife and I spend plenty of time alone."

Holmes was not a man given to blushing, but Watson knew his neat rebuttal had succeeded. Holmes continued upon a different tack, promptly dismissing the statement which had been made to unsettle his friend – and which had backfired upon him. "Christmastime is not a season immune to the foul designing of man. At any moment, I could be consulted to solve a murder."

Watson raised a finger. "Ah. Which is to say that you are presently unemployed."

"As I have said, that could change within the hour."

Watson shrugged. "Then you would be called upon at my house, and you would, of course, be allowed to leave as necessitated."

"I am not a terribly good companion for merrymaking."

"You were perfectly suited to it two years ago; when you came to the party Mary organized."

Holmes considered his options for a moment before trying, "As it is Christmastime, I should make an effort to visit my brother."

The doctor laughed aloud. "Now you're grasping for excuses."

The smirk that had been hiding finally flew to Holmes' lips. Eventually he shrugged, his demeanor relaxing again into his usual calm. "Well, Watson, it would seem that you have won."

The doctor allowed himself a victorious grin before Holmes added mischievously, "… Although, I had every intention of accepting your offer from the start."

The comment succeeded where previous statements had not, and Watson's face fell in disgruntled astonishment. "_Holmes_!"

The detective laughed and the warm sound echoed through the hallway. He stepped forward to grip Watson's arm with affection. "I am unengaged tonight and, I will admit, not much interested in cooking a meal for only myself." Again, his gaze was drawn to the roses in Watson's hand. "Now; as I have wounded your pride and you are to play host tonight, it is only sporting that you are allowed to wound my ego in return. For whom or what are those _deuced roses_ for, if not for Mary?"

There was an edge of desperation in his question, and it was Watson's turn to laugh. "A tradition, Holmes. My mother used to decorate the tree we set up in the sitting room with different colored flowers rather than fruit or baubles. She knew the meanings of all of them, and she used different types every year." He held up his bundle with a mixture of sheepishness and pride. "I'm… not nearly so creative. But Mary likes roses, as do I; and a red rose is the symbol of love, and I am very much in love."

Holmes, who had listened attentively up till the end, wrinkled his nose at this final declaration. Watson laughed again, feeling much warmed by the cheerful prospects of the day. "Well, _you asked_."

The detective raised his head in superiority and Watson snickered once more. "Alright, alright," Holmes groused, waving his hands before him as if to banish away the topic. "My dear Watson, you must go to your wife, and I must prepare for the evening."

Watson walked sprightly towards the door, fixing his hat upon his head with a jovial tap. "Six o'clock, Holmes!"

The detective was as good as his word and arrived precisely on time, dressed in a handsome jacket made all the more presentable by the warmth of his expression, an infrequent glow softening his hawkish face.

He took care to conceal a gift, giving his dark outerwear to a maid who'd stayed to help Mrs. Watson. He, John, and the beautiful Mary meandered into the sitting room where Holmes gave a polite exclamation, remarking on the elegance of the evergreen and silver decorations. "And a lovely tree, too."

Watson had smirked, for despite his friend's gracious kindness, he was well aware of Mrs. Hudson's yearly struggle to set up Christmas trimmings of any kind at Baker Street.

The three sat down to dinner, which was enjoyed immensely. Holmes appeared to be in rare good humor, carrying conversation with interest and even eating a healthy share of the meal. Afterwards, with glasses of spiced wine to warm them, they retired into the sitting room. More stories were shared, and Holmes watched as the Watsons slid the roses he'd seen earlier between the tree's boughs.

Mary turned to smile at the detective. "Mr. Holmes, would you care to decorate as well?"

Holmes stood and walked over, examining the tree and the rose Mary offered with a thoughtful expression on his face. "If I may," he demurred finally. He disappeared briefly from the room to retrieve the gift he'd left with his coat, and he returned with his hand behind his back.

"I should like to add this."

He presented Mrs. Watson with an elegant yellow rose, bowing slightly over it as if saying, _for you_. Mary's smile was delighted as he added his gift to the decorations.

Watson was perfectly flabbergasted.


	15. Stutley Constable: Piano for Thoughts

_NOTE: Fair warning; I'm lamentably busy for the next two days, so my prompt responses are going to be briefer than normal - this response included. _

_Also, for those that read Watson and roses - it was brought to my attention that to some, a yellow rose actually implies jealousy. THAT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT WHAT I MEANT, although I couldn't help laughing at the terrible thought of Holmes doing that. No, I grew up with the knowledge that a yellow rose implies friendship - FRIENDSHIP, I MEANT FRIENDSHIP. YEESH. _

_Did Victorians still use the the full 'pianoforte' or had they shortened it by that point? Aaaah, I wasn't sure. Forgive my gaffs in historical colloquialisms. _

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><p><span>Stutley Constable - <span>**A piano for your thoughts**.

Mary Watson looked up from her reading to observe the sour-faced countenance of the injured detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Since her marriage to John, she had seen Mr. Holmes perhaps three or four times. It was clear that, so early in their prolonged association, Sherlock was unsure of how to react to her. On the few occasions he _had _visited in the past five months, it had been to ask politely after her husband and wait awkwardly in the parlor for his arrival.

Then the events of last evening transpired, and suddenly they had a chance to know one another better.

An uneven knock upon the door heralded Holmes' unexpected arrival. At the maid's shout of alarm, John had hurried to assist, face draining of color when he spied the bleary and bedraggled appearance of his friend. He'd helped Holmes inside to the settee, set about dressing the wounds from an ambushed brawl, and ordered his nigh-insensate companion to rest for a day or two under his watchful eye.

Said companion now sat, sore and bandaged, in an armchair before the fire, brow creased in deliberation regarding the case which still necessitated his attention.

He huffed in exasperation, rubbing his forehead with one good hand. "It is useless. I cannot think!"

"What do you need?" Mary inquired patiently. John had needed to visit his practice today, so the responsibility of making sure Holmes rested was passed to her.

Holmes gave an aggravated sigh, weariness no doubt making his irritation all the more cumbersome. "It is a nuisance that those second-rate ruffians damaged my hand, or else I would…" He glanced up at Mary, almost self-consciously. Quietly, he finished, "I would play my violin."

There it was again, that awkwardness with which he always spoke to her. Perhaps in time he would learn that she could be as open-minded a companion as her husband.

Mary considered the dilemma for a moment. A thought occurred to the former governess.

"Mr. Holmes, it was common in my occupation to teach young ladies some basic pieces upon the piano. I am not a music teacher, certainly, but I am not without some little skill."

The detective's shoulders appeared to sink with apprehension. The demands of his own rigorous musicianship was at odds with the need to respond to her gesture with gentlemanly politeness. As such, only a hint of hesitation showed in his voice when he replied indifferently, "If you so desire."

Mrs. Watson stood and approached the plain upright piano that sat in the corner of the room. It was a terribly modest thing; but it was kept tuned, and so Mary began to play.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the detective wince when she fumbled over certain phrases. Eventually, however, she began to warm up to her task, and she glanced over to see the sole member of her audience relaxed, eyes unfocused in thought.

She only paused to retrieve sheet-music on two occasions. For an hour, she calmly played, at last stopping when she heard her husband's voice in the hallway.

"Mary! Are you playing?"

Before she could respond, however, Holmes sat up in his armchair and drawled, "Watson, I should have thought that observation was well within your capabilities."

Mary smirked, John entering the room with a scowl. The detective sat back in his chair, grimacing once as his abused body protested. "Actually," he relented, "your charming wife was doing more than simply 'playing', Watson. Indeed, Mrs. Watson, if you would be so kind…" He turned a quiet smile in her direction, mutely expressing his thanks with a wink. "… Perhaps you might continue to play for another half-hour yet; I have just very nearly solved this case."


	16. W Y Traveller: Irregular's Santa note

_NOTE: As I said, briefer responses until I get a little less busy and catch up. Until then, we go into 221B mode! [facts: 1),_ _I thought_ Hobbit BoFA _was great! 2), Holiday hours are the absolute worst. Be nice to cashiers this month!]_

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><p><span>From W. Y. Traveller - <span>**A young Irregular writes a letter to Holmes in the hopes that the Great Detective will pass it on to Santa.**

"But you _said _your case were takin' you up north!" Tracy accused plaintively.

"North to _Scotland_, not the North Pole," Holmes corrected, his calm demeanor beginning to strain.

"Well, Scotland's closer norf than London, ain't it? Please, it won't take more'n a moment! I just wanna make sure 'e sees it, gets it put _directly _in'is 'ands!"

"Tracy, _please_; I must finish preparing for my departure."

Holmes continued to stride about the room collecting the few reference books he would need during his brief excursion to Glasgow. Watson, however, had caught the broken-hearted expression of the young irregular and stood, going to the detective's side to murmur in his ear.

After a moment, Holmes rolled his eyes. He sighed testily, but relented. "_Fine_. Give it here, Tracy." The eagerly passed dingy letter was stuffed inside Holmes' inside jacket pocket and the boy sent away.

Five minutes later, it was thrown into the waste-bin.

As such, Holmes was terribly confused when, the day after Christmas, he found his legs enveloped by the overjoyed Tracy.

"_Thank you _Mr. Holmes, sir! I _knew_ it would work! Santa finally brought what I asked fer!"

Holmes uncomfortably, exasperatedly, glanced at Watson for help. The doctor winked, placing a finger over his lips; he had taken it upon himself to make Tracy's Christmas all the more bright.


	17. Garonne: Naif

_NOTE: Alright! A few responses today in an attempt to catch up. Belated Merry Christmas to everyone! I've still been enjoying reading everyone's daily responses. _

_I absolutely had to look this word up. I initially presumed it either to be the noun form of naïve or a strange pronunciation of the word "knife"._

* * *

><p><span>From Garonne - <span>**naif**

The first year of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's acquaintance found them in idle conversation one evening discussing the advantages of different fighting forms to self-defense. Watson was already aware that Holmes was a competent boxer, fencer, and single-stick fighter. Holmes, in turn, was aware of Watson's experience with rugby and shooting. His stay in the military, too, suggested that he must have some middling ability in the arena of physical defense.

However, he had not yet had opportunity to observe the doctor in combat, and so eventually, with an eyebrow quirked in genuine curiosity, he inquired after the doctor's boxing abilities. The subsequent dialogue eventually sparked a spirit of competition, and concluded in the furniture of their sitting room being pushed away to leave a wide space in the middle of the room.

Dressed in trousers, shirt-sleeves, and old gloves, the two faced off – the doctor with, admittedly, the slightest trepidation. However honest Holmes' curious challenge had been, he could not help but notice the conspiratorial gleam in the detective's eye.

"Well, Watson, let us see how you would handle a criminal were we to be unhappily engaged in fisticuffs during a case."

Their jabs were cautious at first. Any contact was made lightly; although, once warming to the task, Watson began to punch more confidently. Strangely, however, the detective appeared to be holding back. He knew Holmes to be a far more competent boxer than he was allowing at present.

Before long, as they continued to trade blows, Watson began to feel as if he was being toyed with: evaluated. What had initially seemed a comradely game appeared to be Holmes merely testing his physical limitations. This was not so much a challenge as a quaint examination of his strength.

For whatever reason, as he successfully blocked another lackluster punch, the idea rankled.

His pride quietly bristling, he began to throw heavier punches. He tried to draw out Holmes' true abilities by taking him by surprise. In some respects, he was successful. When one of his right jabs caught the detective across the chin, he was met with a startled frown. However, while Holmes began to move more quickly, he still did not fight to his full abilities.

And, Watson noted with a strange amount of irritation, he was not taking any advantage of his wounded shoulder.

"Come on, Holmes," he huffed finally, drawing his fists up protectively. "You're not even trying, old boy."

"Aren't I?" the detective shot with a mischievous grin.

Watson was caught off guard when Holmes suddenly performed a strange maneuver, effectively locking the doctor's arms and restraining him from behind. The attack was absolutely unexpected. And entirely unfair.

"_Ho-olmes!" _Watson growled out, struggling against the iron grip._ "_What the _devil—"_

The detective fought to keep the doctor in his grasp. His voice tight from the strain, he nonetheless chided somewhat disappointedly, "Come, Watson, you're not honestly quite so naïve as to think a criminal would abide by the Queensberry rules?"

It was the victorious chuckle that followed which sent Watson's temper aflame. He was not a child to be babied, nor an invalid to be tested. The disappointed tone of voice and that patronizing glimmer of mirth made him disinclined to be honorable. Besides, Holmes had broken the Queensberry rules first.

He relinquished his grip on Holmes' arms to jab both elbows into the detective's sides. Holmes, who had not expected Watson to react quite so fiercely to his provocation, gave a great, pained exhale as his air was knocked irretrievably away. He had unwisely maintained a grip on the doctor, however, so Watson, without thinking, drove a heel down upon the detective's foot.

With a great howl, Holmes fell to the ground. His shocked attention was so comprised of his pained foot and momentary inability to breathe that he was helpless as a grip on his shoulder rolled him to his back and a force shoved his torso and arms to the ground.

"Wuh – Watson!" For the moment, he was perfectly restrained, his breath still disconcertingly spare.

"Do you concede?"

"_Yes, of co – orse!" _

The weight was removed and after another second of useless gaping, his diaphragm responded and he gasped and coughed

"Really, Holmes," Watson said airily, arms folded as he stood beside the recovering detective. "Surely you're not such a naif as to assume I'd be unable to meet your challenge?"


	18. Ennui Enigma: Nursery Rhyme

_NOTE: 221! Although not ending in B.  
><em>

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><p><span>From Ennui Enigma - <span>**Use an old nursery rhyme as inspiration**

There was movement downstairs in the sitting room.

Groggily, Watson fumbled for his pocket watch upon the side table.

4:20 in the morning.

Resolutely, he replaced the timepiece to its resting place and rolled over, drawing the warm, welcoming blankets over his shoulders.

He had drifted off again when there began a second flurry of activity from downstairs. A pair of footsteps rushed away and left, closing the front door none too gently.

Holmes he could hear rushing about in his room. There was a slam as he navigated a piece of luggage down from the top shelf of his closet – _oh no_ – and the rattle of drawers for several minutes thereafter – _a long case, then_.

No. Absolutely nothing would convince him to get out of bed. 4:40 was a thoroughly improper time to do _anything,_ much less pack to take a cold ride over to a chilly train station, to sit in a drafty train car, to tramp about damp country-side—

"WATSON!"

Holmes opened his door without bothering to knock. "Come, Watson! A case demands our presence on the continent!"

_Oh, perfect, a ferry ride; damp and drafty, all at once._

"Watson!" Holmes sang. Watson growled sleepily.

It was only when Holmes began to loudly and tauntingly caterwaul "_Frère Jacques" _that the doctor finally flung a pillow at his face.

* * *

><p><em>Are you sleeping, are you sleeping,<em>  
><em> Brother John? Brother John?<em>  
><em> Morning bells are ringing! Morning bells are ringing!<em>  
><em> Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.<em>


	19. Domina Temporis: Worst London Neighbors

_NOTE: Again, 221... missing the B... _

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><p><span>From Domina Temporis - <span>**The worst neighbors in London**

Though they would never realize it, a particular landlord on Montague Street and a certain hotel-manager on the Strand would share the dubious pleasure of housing two famously awful London tenants.

They would never meet, of course. Nor would they have any idea that the complaints they received regarding "that odd Holmes chap" and "the gentleman with the cane" were similar in nature.

The hotel-manager had to deal with the problem for far less time than the landlord – "_Six years _of his peculiar ways!" the landlord would have lamented. "Well," the manager would have argued, "at least you didn't lose money from the rooms surrounding _your _tenant!"

The chief complaint they fielded from neighbors, you see, was that of noise. The landlord put a stop to the violin playing at three a.m., but there was little he could do to stop the man from coming and going at odd hours.

The manager, for his part, could only scratch his head in response as the neighbors of that Watson fellow's room refused to stay longer than a few nights, complaining about screams and ghouls.

Occasionally, Holmes returned to his rooms smelling of sulfur. Watson sometimes reeked of alcohol. Thrice, the landlord was obliged to clean dried blood from the stairwell.

Neither the landlord nor the manager was sad to see them go


	20. KnightFury: Yarders' Christmas Party

_NOTE: ... And that was the time KnightFury and I inadvertently traded drunk Holmes and Watson stories (I could have went another route with this, I suppose, but... I didn't actually realize the prompt was yours until after I'd written it! I've re-read your response for day 24 and I seem to have imagined a prequel... I_ told _you this idea is a guilty pleasure of mine._)_  
><em>

* * *

><p><span>From KnightFury - <span>**Yarders' Christmas party.**

The rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade was legendary. Over the years it manifested itself in a number of ways: the completion of cases, statements to the newspapers, and the occasional off-hours challenge.

The Annual Yarder Christmas party, being an opportunity to relax and act a bit more unprofessionally than normal, oftentimes showcased a competition between the two men. There was the time the other inspectors had been forced to judge as to who could be the most intimidating (Gregson, who had the advantage of height). Another year, they had arranged a relay of sorts; Lestrade and Gregson were required to race from a nearby pub to Scotland Yard where stood two unhappy sergeants, volunteered to act as 'criminals'. The two inspectors were then require to grab their criminals and slap on a pair of derbies, the first to do so winning the match (Lestrade won that year, for he was quicker, although poor Hopkins had to nurse a bleeding nose the rest of the night from Lestrade's overzealous tackle).

The annually anticipated competition, however, was waylaid in '94. As oftentimes happens in the case of rivals, Gregson and Lestrade were obliged to unite against a common enemy.

The Christmas of '94 went down in Yarder history as the year the inspectors faced off against Watson and Holmes.

In a drinking contest.


End file.
